Weighing His Words
by She Steps On Cracks
Summary: Only one individual would ever come close to understanding the innermost workings of that astute, rare mind that belonged to Sherlock Holmes. I was only a witness to it. I am not that person. Developing Sherlock/OC
1. This Intriguing and Subtle Dance

**Weighing His Words**

**Chapter One:**

**"This Intriguing and Subtle Dance"**

"Give me the soap," he ordered abruptly.

I took a surprised step back, caught off guard by the vehemence of the bizarre request. "I'm sorry?"

"Soap. Now," he commanded shortly, dancing from one foot to the other in his impatience. The man expertly snapped his fingers through stiff leather gloves and gestured widely with poorly disguised irritation.

I understood belatedly that this was a man used to getting his own way. Given my job as a maid, I frequently encounter all manner of guests seeking something extra for their rooms; an extra packet of biscuits here, a quick soap swap there. I hadn't, however, been party to such a strange or curt demand before.

Frowning and seriously considering his mental stability, I edged away from him ever so slightly. There was a panic button wired to my cart, just under the metal lip. Previously the butt of countless jokes and sarcasm, I was beginning to appreciate the overzealous safety measures of my employers.

To my utter surprise and fright, he lunged forward suddenly and seized the delicately wrapped, scented ovals from my bewildered hands. He brutally shoved them in the pockets of his coat and took off, spinning on one leather heel and disappearing down the carpeted hallway. All of which was accomplished while tutting exasperatedly.

I glanced around, half hoping that someone else had witnessed the incident - and could subsequently verify my sanity. Had my mind conjured the handsome apparition? It was an idea that I was seriously contemplating, but apart from me and my supply trolley, the stretched run of corridor was deserted. When I looked down at my empty, shaky hands, I knew that that wasn't the case. Soap-less palms aside, it was unlikely that I'd have invented an exit as overly-theatrical as that. Whoever he was, he certainly had a soft spot for melodrama; the image of his long, black coat fanning out as he rounded the corner was evidence enough for that.

He'd come and gone so quickly that I hadn't even enough time to register, let alone catalogue, his thoughts. The projection pattern of his mind was already fading from my memory; a half-forgotten jumble of pitch and tone. In fact, my attention had been so shoddy that I was left with no clue as to why he actually needed the soap. Bizarre was perhaps the word for it.

Shaking my head and balancing a mountain of pressed bed linens, I inserted my master key-card into the polished reader of room 403. Deftly wedging a stopper underneath the heavy, lightwood door, I shuffled into the vacant room before dropping my burden on an overstuffed loveseat.

In my experience, hotel furniture is the same the world over: utilitarian, straightforward and executed with varying degrees of elegance. At the Alton Court, one of London's more upscale examples of hospitality, this was no exception. But since their guests are paying a premium every time they check in, they'd made every visible effort to attain an atmosphere of comfortable luxury. And boy had they achieved it.

In the same way a pizza chef gets heartily sick of pizzas, the lavishness of the suites had eventually ceased to faze me. The bed, albeit softer than most, was essentially parallel to my own at home and the towels, while perpetually fluffy and pristine, were exactly the same size. Once I realised this, I found it easier for me to interact with the guests; I no longer felt I was meant to be holding out my apron so they could travel without scuffing their shoes.

In retrospect, I guess that's what Sherlock has always seen through; all the vanity and deception, all the pride and pretty trappings. This intriguing and subtle dance we move to, life, is stripped bare before his eyes. For someone who claims to despise the workings of the mundane, I would learn all too clearly how he revels in the chaos of humanity.

I began to strip the beds of their barely used linen, balling up and tossing the fine, white sheets into the corner of the room. I'd pick them up later. For the meantime, however, they weren't doing anyone any harm. With technique that only comes from making beds for eight hours a day, I unfolded the fresh sheets with a sharp flick of my wrists. The snapping sound, I'm sure you'd agree, is quite satisfying.

I suppose it means something when I say that I don't live in the irrational fear that I'll be imprisoned and dissected for my talent. A.) How would anyone guess in the first place? and B.) I'm pretty sure that the boffins in white coats could figure out a way to extract information (without the need for anaesthesia and a scalpel) if they felt so inclined.

To be honest, I quite enjoy my relative obscurity; living in a one bed apartment complete with normal, decidedly non-crazy neighbours. Of course, it would be a far greater plot device if one fellow tenant was a gorgeous fireman or sexy technological wizard, but sadly that is a far cry from reality. The last time I checked, my neighbours consisted of two broke, usually high, students and one depressed accountant. None of whom know what I can do. That said, it's not really the kind of thing you share as you pass on the stairs; especially if the only contact you have with them is when they're after some mint sauce or talcum powder every couple of months or so.

I shot a puzzled glance in the direction of my supply basket, wondering for about the fourth time what had driven the guy's urgent need for cleanliness. Late for a meeting, maybe? I didn't know. I shrugged to myself and got on with my work, pushing the thoughts firmly out of my mind. I hurried to finish my work; cleaning and preparing the room for its next tenant. Like always, I kept my head down, offering a polite, submissive 'good afternoon sir' as required. The sooner I got my work finished, the sooner I could fold myself into my favourite (and only) armchair with a cup of tea and a yellowed, dog-eared novel for company.

To be honest, I never thought that moment would have any particular significance. I'd put his behaviour down to an inexplicably strong urge to bathe using more soaps than was standard and left it at that. I had no idea who'd just snatched soap from my unwitting hands, nor where the occurrence would lead.

Since the dark haired stranger had nicked the last remaining soaps on the floor, I decided to fashion two of the Egyptian cotton hand towels into roses. I was secretly hoping that it would detract from the fact that not all of the promised 'luxurious personal amenities' were present. The resulting flower was the only creditable product of an origami fad I'd succumbed to in my teens.

To this day, I still haven't mastered the damned swan.

I only half listened to the gentle hum of human minds going about their business. I can only describe the sensation as a low murmur, and unless I get angry or frustrated, that's the way it usually stays. Although I try to block out some of the more personal thoughts and provide those around me with a scrap of privacy, the fact that the businessman staying in room 405 was having an affair didn't escape me. It had been that way for three years, yet the comforting lull of mental noise had never really posed much of a problem for me. While telepathy has its good days and its bad days, arm yourself with a box of painkillers and anything is possible.

I'd gotten up one morning with a splitting headache and a sandpaper mouth, two symptoms I initially credited to the copious volumes of alcohol I'd drank the night before. Hen parties – they happen to the best of us. The mouth had been rectified with three glasses of water and two and a half cups of coffee, but four paracetamol later and the headache still hadn't. Imagine my surprise when dragged myself out of my flat to pick up some milk and a complete stranger comments acidly, without halting her stride, on my split ends. I'd heard it, but she hadn't moved her lips. While I didn't stop her and demand an explanation, I did end up getting my hair cut.

The hangover eventually went away but the ability never did. But, to borrow a favourite idiom of my mother's, 'never look a gift horse in the mouth.' Ill fitting and very nearly out of context, yes, but I think the point stands nicely. Despite that in more recent months it's been a source of increased hassle, I believe it's a good thing. It keeps me on my toes, if nothing else.

Shutting the door behind me, I brushed my hands down my light blue uniform to straighten out the minuscule creases that had formed during my shift.

Company policy. What can I say?

After checking that all my various supply boxes were present, I rolled the substantially lighter cart down the long hallway. Since somebody had decided it wasn't proper for the help to use the same lifts as our clients, I headed in the direction of the discreet staff elevator. Glancing down at my watch, an item that was technically contraband, I sighed lightly when I saw the time. The soap snatching incident and resulting mental preoccupation had made me late to leave; a fact that bothered me less than it should've done.

The women's cloakroom was mostly deserted when I walked in, but since it was between shifts, it wasn't unusual. Pulling my civilian clothes out of my locker, I hurriedly shed my uniform and changed. As I was hanging the discarded outfit on the laundry rail, I tried to remember what the man had been thinking when he'd commandeered my supplies.

If we'd touched, even briefly, I would have been presented with his emotions rather than a stream of consciousness. But while I'd definitely heard something within the jumbled buzz, I hadn't thought to pay attention to it. I shook my head, chiding my lapse of attention but didn't fret over it. It was unlikely that I would ever see the guy again and at the end of the day, it didn't really matter, did it?

I pulled on my coat and ticked myself out before heading into the prematurely dark March evening, instinctively creating barriers to ward off the stray thoughts of fellow commuters. A particularly bitter wind toyed with my hair as I joined the main street, slipping into the steady stream of tired workers. I was too preoccupied with winding my scarf around my neck to notice the hooded figure discard their cigarette and fall into step several paces behind me.

* * *

**A/N: **In case you're wondering, the chapters do get longer – more than double this length – and of course Mycroft, Sherlock and John will be putting in regular appearances. It wouldn't be a Sherlock fanfic without them! In fact, we'll meet the latter two in the next chapter.

Please feel free to tell me what you think and, as always, I am open to suggestions and constructive criticism. I don't want to be the one to butcher the canon...

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of the characters or plot sequences recognisable as being from the BBC's Sherlock or popular culture. *sigh* Ah well.


	2. If Found Please Return

**Weighing His Words.**

**Chapter Two:**

**"If Found, Please Return."**

By the time I'd gotten to work the next morning, I'd all but forgotten about the bizarre interlude in the hallway. I rubbed my palms over tired eyes and tried to compose myself into somebody that wouldn't get fired within the next eight hours. I went to smooth down my hair but gave up and redid the bun completely. I'd stayed up late reading McEwan's _Enduring Love _and had only stumbled into bed half an hour past midnight. You'd have thought that I would've learned not to purposefully inflict exhaustion upon myself by now, but apparently I'm just not that clever.

In fact, I was so blissfully out of it, that it took a skull to snap me back into reality.

Parking my cart outside the specified door, I consulted my list to double-check the service I was meant to give the room. A quick glance down the checkboxes confirmed that it was only a standard strip and refresh to make the room ready for its next occupant. My mind must have wandered as I didn't see the elderly gentleman approach me. He requested a paper in his soft-spoken voice but apologised kindly when the sound made me jump. I handed it to him with a small smile and wished him a genuine 'nice day.' I watched him amble away before turning my attention, or as much of it as I could manage, back to the task at hand.

I hauled the box of supplies bound for the mini-fridge through the open door and set it gently on the unmarked wooden desk. Crossing the room with two tiny bottles of Vodka and several cans of Red Bull, amongst other things, I squatted at the cooler door and pulled it open with my free hand. After placing the items in their designated places, I arranged them so that their labels were facing forward. Absently dusting off my knees, I stood up from my crouch - only to come eye-to-eye with the empty sockets of a human skull.

It's an effective wake-up call, I can tell you that.

I fell back against a padded dining chair with a muffled screech, unconsciously pressing my hands to my heart. Fortunately my brain caught up pretty quickly and the morbid part of it urged me to take another look. I impulsively complied. With a shaky laugh, I took a tentative step closer and peered into the long dead face with what I imagine was comical apprehension. Lifting a finger, I unceremoniously poked the smooth ivory temple.

What did I honestly expect it to do? Eat me?

I gave another laugh, this one steadier than the first, and did it again, causing it to slide further back on the polished surface. I went to touch it for a third time but caught myself. Aside from the fact that I was assaulting an inanimate object, if it truly was a human skull, it was hardly respectful to be prodding away at it. I picked the thing up, supporting its weight carefully like I expected it to reanimate at any moment. I turned it over in my hands, studying it closely.

Tilting the skull, I peered into the empty cranium, trying to pretend that this was a perfectly normal reaction. Spotting something, I held it up to the light to try and get a better look. Like the label you'd see in a child's shoe, a small sticker had been stuck to the underside of the bone.

_If found, please return to:_

_221B Baker Street,_

_Marylebone,_

_London_

_NW1 6XE_

I sighed, having inevitably decided to return the damn thing; it'd only get tossed in the skip if I didn't. That aside, my curiosity had been piqued too much for me to ignore it. How many people, of those who just so happened to own a skull, would casually leave it lying around a hotel? I wondered idly if the owner was a professor of some sort, unable to come up with another plausible explanation. I propped it up on top of the television for the time being, resigning myself to what was sure to be a highly unusual conversation.

That, my friends, turned out to be an understatement.

...

The black cab rolled to a silent halt outside the requested address. I leant forward, counting out the required fee and passed it to the cabbie. After checking the change for himself, he grunted in acknowledgement and turned his attention, once again, to the Sat-Nav system that sat on his dashboard. Too polite to pass comment, I clambered out and slammed the door on his dark thoughts about his wife.

I twisted to watch the taxi pull away, following it with my eyes until it disappeared into the evening traffic. Hefting my bag onto my shoulder, I turned my attention back to the building in front of me. The white stone was unusually clean for central London and contrasted in mock cheer with the beaten black door. 221B. I took a deep breath, mentally composing my speech.

Somehow "Hi, I found your skull" didn't sound right.

I stepped forward and raised my hand to the rectangular knocker, rapping it firmly before I could talk myself out if it. I waited for several moments, shivering on the doorstep and wondering what foolish impulse had brought me here. As I was about to give up and head for home, the door was pulled open by a small, very pink woman in her late sixties.

"Sherlock, I really wish you would remember your own key. I'm the landlady, not your-" She stopped short at the sight of me. I shuffled uneasily and gave a small smile, but before I could begin to speak, she apologised quickly.

"Oh, sorry dear. I was expecting someone else. What can I do for you?"

"I'm...uh, really sorry to bother you," I began awkwardly, "But I think I have something that belongs to you." I fumbled with the straps of my bag and pulled the skull free, presenting it to the tiny woman. When I looked up, she'd propped a hand on one hip and was smiling kindly.

"Goodness dear that belongs to Sherlock, not me! I can't even look at thing without getting chills," she clapped her hands together suddenly. "Silly me! You must be freezing! Please come in."

"It's fine," I interjected quickly. "I'll just leave it with you."

"Nonsense, dear. He'll be back soon anyway," she opened the door wider and ushered me inside, ignoring my feeble protests. "You go on; take the stairs and then straight ahead. I'll send them up when they get in." She bustled off, leaving me standing in the doorway.

I realised that I was still holding the skull and stuffed it roughly into my bag again.

What? It wouldn't stop grinning at me.

I started up the stairs, feeling very invasive. Reaching the first floor, I tentatively pushed open the unlocked door and stepped inside. The wallpaper was a patterned brown; not that you could see much of it behind the clutter that lined the walls. I guessed that Sherlock was a single man - no regular woman could have ever put up with the sheer scale of junk. As if to punctuate my point, I spied a violin abandoned on a wobbly bookshelf.

I stood awkwardly in the living room, feeling all too much like an intruder. A montage of maps, photographs and sticky notes were pinned over the sofa, which I studied curiously. I tried to make sense of the links that clearly somebody had noticed, but the reason for the connections eluded me. I picked up a stray text book caught my eye and thumbed delicately through the pages. I'd just flipped back to the first chapter when I noticed the hum of an approaching mind. I spun around to face the newcomer, feeling all together like a criminal caught red-handed.

"I wouldn't bother with that, if I were you. It reads like another language," the man said dryly outstretching his hand. "Mrs. Hudson said you'd be up here. I'm John Watson."

"Hannah Spencer," I supplied, taking the proffered limb without hesitation.

As usual, the contact sent a myriad of emotions flowing into my brain. I picked them apart and decoded them quickly, letting go before the contact became strange. Naturally he was a little confused at the presence of a stranger in his apartment but something in his thoughts sighed and accepted it quickly enough. I took advantage of the awkward silence that followed, curious to know why he accepted my invasion so readily.

_I wonder what he's gone and done this time. _The quiet thought floated from the soldier's mind. Of course this was followed by other, less relevant items that I'll not relay. John Watson's consciousness was like his face: pleasant and honest, with an easy humour to match. His musings flitted from memory to event as he tried to guess why I was standing in the middle of his home.

I shifted my weigh to my other leg and scratched my elbow. The movements helped me to re-establish my own mind. "Your flatmate lost something yesterday. I thought I'd bring it back rather than risk it getting chucked away."

Watson looked puzzled until I produced the skull. His face brightened with comprehension. "Thank God for that. He'd be in a foul mood if he realised he'd lost it. Thanks," he said, shaking his head in relief.

I listened in curiously as he imagined his friend's reaction. It seemed the man would be more vexed at not noticing its absence than actually loosing it. Odd.

I hesitated. "It's not real is it?"

He grinned at my question, nodding, "Unfortunately yes." His smile spread wider as he watched my reaction. "Tell me about it. Sherlock can be a bit eccentric sometimes. It's no one I know, but I do my best not to think about it."

He was trying to make me feel at ease, I realised.

"Here, let me take that off your hands," he said, indicating the skull.

"Oh cheers." I passed it to him gratefully. I was glad to be rid of it.

I went to add something but I stopped when I sensed the approach of another consciousness. Even if I'd been concentrating solely on deflecting outside thoughts, it would've been nigh impossible to miss this mind. This subconscious was vastly different to the gentle doctor's and was easily the most intricate and fascinating psyche that I'd ever heard in my life. It worked methodically and logically, considering all the possibilities before settling single-mindedly on a conclusion. Remember at this point he was only settling the fare for his taxi.

I started to wince even before he burst through the door. It was also bloody loud.

The volume of your thoughts varies widely from person to person. My personal theory is that it mirrors your personality which is why a child's thought pattern can be the polar opposite of their father or sister. In the same way that some people are softly spoken, some peoples' thoughts practically slap me in the face whenever I walk past. In my short time as a telepath, I've met some really, really strong broadcasters, but the man I was about to meet took the cake.

John turned to face his flatmate, intent on introducing me. I raised my eyebrows in surprise – it was the man from the corridor.

My first thought: thieving soap snatcher. The second: how the hell had I missed that?

He entered the room with leisurely ease, but his movements had a confident, almost haughty quality that went beyond entering one's own home. His eyes took in my presence and flickered around the living room, alighting almost imperceptibly on the macabre object in John's hands. His assessment was so efficient and practised that if I hadn't been watching him, I would've missed it completely.

"Ah, Sherlock, this is Hannah. She came to-"

"Return my skull, I already know," he said impatiently, waving a dismissive hand. He plonked himself down on a low sofa and stretched languidly, his legs curling over the armrest. His dark hair was as dishevelled as I remembered it, curling erratically around his forehead and cheekbones.

Defined cheekbones, I noted appreciatively.

"Of course," muttered John, giving me an apologetic glance. "Hannah meet-"

"Sherlock Holmes," he supplied coolly. "Consulting Detective."

I simply nodded. It was a wonder I managed to respond at all. It was taking me a while to adjust to the sheer level of projection.

"Pleased to meet you," I managed finally after I'd wrestled to noise down to a more bearable level. For the sake of politeness, I extended my hand. Instead of reaching for it, he gave me a long, calculating look. I withdrew it uneasily, shooting a questioning glance in John's direction.

The doctor shook his head wearily, smiling apologetically at me after giving his friend a dark look. I got the impression that I shouldn't take it personally.

I turned back to Sherlock. "So, do you often-"

"Please be quiet."

I blinked at the affront, but complied. For someone who was lounging horizontally on a sofa, he had a surprisingly intimidating presence.

I watched as his eyes narrowed slightly in thought. It was about as impossible to not listen in as it was to prevent myself from being fascinated.

_Short, serviceable nails suggesting a practical job. There's no trace of paint residue in her cuticles thereby eliminating the possibility of a decorator. She wears clear varnish, possibly a strengthener due to the splits in the keratin but likely part of strict uniform, which in turn indicates an upscale company. Dry, chapped skin on and around the palms and fingers, the result of excessive exposure to cleaning products. _

_Her earrings – Circa 1930s, possibly favours antiquities but likely a gift. No ring – single - but no bracelets either, suggesting that she's come straight from work. Her shoes are black, utilitarian but well looked after so she's employed in a low income job. Hair is damp but not soaking; she walked a short distance but hailed a cab within four minutes. _

The list went on and on; complied of tiny scraps of information about my life gleaned from tiny indicators I hadn't even known were factors. I found his cognition both unnerving and enthralling. It was so unexpected in fact, that it rendered me speechless. I realised with a jolt that only a few seconds had passed and his thoughts had been but wordless impressions that I'd translated.

_The evidence converges to indicate a maid working in a hotel near Aldwych._

"You should pay more attention when you iron."

"Excuse me?"

"Evidently you get distracted, judging by the sheer number of burns on your wrists and fingers." He nodded in the direction of my right hand. "That one's fresh. Done earlier this morning, I'd imagine."

I glanced at the side of my palm and dropped it quickly to my side. It was still stinging.

His gaze held a hint of smugness when he registered my action. "But the question is," he mused aloud, drumming the fingers of one hand against the sunken armrest. "How did you know where I live?"

John cleared his throat. "Actually Sherlock-"

"Shh!"

A thousand possibilities scrolled across his brain but he discarded each one as it came. All of a sudden, he sprang to his feet and stalked the width of the room, reaching for the item that I'd so diligently returned. Flipping it over in his hands, he exhaled through pursed lips when he spotted the address.

I could have sworn disappointment tinged his thoughts.

"You did this." He directed the words at his roommate.

It was a statement, not a question but John answered anyway. "Well, yes," he said with a frown. "You are unnaturally attached to the thing."

"Hmm?" Sherlock remarked absently, no longer listening. His attention focussed, once again, on me; pinning and dissecting with those scary blue eyes. His lightning-fast observation and deducing skills were at it again; trying to discover what else had brought me here. He scowled, angry when his brain couldn't provide a suitable motivation for my being here.

I was wondering the same thing actually.

"Have we met?" He asked reluctantly.

"Well you-" I began, but he cut me off.

"That's right – the hotel," he said abruptly before careening off without another word. I stared after him. It appeared that John was accustomed to this behaviour and turned to me with a half-hearted sigh.

"The hotel?" He asked curiously.

"Alton Court, I work there," I admitted. "Your friend stole my soap."

The doctor snorted. "Soap? What the devil did he want that for?"

I shrugged my cluelessness. "It beats me. There's enough in the rooms to clean a fleet of cars."

Puzzlement crossed his face. _Hotel room? Has Sherlock been away this week?_

"You mean he didn't check in?" I asked stupidly without thinking. I'd answered his thoughts not his words.

He frowned, "How did you-"

"What?" I asked with false bemusement, hoping that he'd drop it. My acting skills weren't exactly stellar. I listened carefully and almost breathed a sigh of relief when he convinced himself he'd spoken out loud.

"Forget it," he gestured dismissively. "My mind is a bit frazzled, is all."

Thank goodness Sherlock wasn't in the room, that's all I'll say.

Speaking of him, I could hear his loud buzz from all the way downstairs; humming away like nobody's business. What could he have possibly discovered up there to analyse? Was he actually thinking about...oh Christ. I slammed that mental door shut pretty quickly.

Body parts, in my opinion, are best left _**attached **_to wherever they're meant to be.

I rubbed two fingers against my temple, hoping to alleviate the building tension. Sherlock Holmes: fascinating but draining. I'd noticed earlier that John had long come to the same conclusion.

"Well how the heck did he get into the room without a key?" He opened his mouth to reply, but I headed him off, "Actually on second thoughts, never mind; I kinda get the impression that I don't want to know."

John nodded amicably and offered his hand. I shook it. "It was a pleasure meeting you," he said, the warmth in his voice reaching his eyes.

"Likewise. Although, I'm not sure the same can be said for your friend," I said with a wry smile. The incident had certainly been interesting; in more ways than one.

"Oh and um...Sherlock would never admit it, but he is grateful for you bringing the skull back."

I nodded and searched for something else to say. It seemed my small talk reservoir had all but dried up.

"Any time," I said finally and waved goodbye, taking my leave before the situation became irredeemable awkward.

Hurrying quietly down the stairs, I let myself out, shutting the peeling door behind me. I stepped with considerable relief onto the deserted pavement. The evening air was cool against my burning cheeks. I shoved my hands into my coat pockets and started in the direction of home, having decided that the streets were lit well enough for me to walk at least part of the way.

As I was about to cross the road, my phone vibrated against my fingertips. Fishing it out, I glanced at the display, tapping my thumb against the screen to open the message.

_Goodnight Spencer._

_You will come again._

_SH_

If that wasn't ominous, I didn't know what was.

* * *

**A/N: **I thought I'd take this opportunity to give a huge thank you and shout-out to the wonderful people who reviewed:** sarahelizabeth1993, Black1Han1d, NotxYetxDead, Silvermoon of Forestclan,** **LexieBird **and **smiles**. Also much love to any whom favorited and subscribed. Jaw met floor when I opened my email.

This story begins after "The Blind Banker" but will eventually flow to coincide with "The Great Game." I did take the liberty of penning 221B's address but please, please correct me if I'm wrong. Feel free to highlight any errors or give me pointers. My inbox is always open.


	3. His Intruding Light

**Weighing His Words**

**Chapter Three:**

**His Intruding Light.**

"Look sir," I exhaled frustratedly. "I don't think that somebody was in my flat; I know it."

"And how are you so sure?" The constable asked in a bored tone, twisting the scratched wedding around the third finger of his left hand.

My temper was fast unravelling, taking with it my common sense. I blew an irritated breath through pursed lips, struggling to contain my indignant reaction when words like _paranoid _and _nervous _drifted across his consciousness. I'd explained the situation twice already but still he was yet to believe me.

"The door was forced open," I said matter-of-factly. I almost regretted my tone. Almost.

A bushy eyebrow disappeared into his contrastingly receding hairline."Miss, are you sure that you didn't simply forget to lock it?"

"Very." I was beginning to wish I'd thought this idea through more thoroughly. I felt the tell-tale heat of a blush working its way across my face, an equal mix of embarrassment and frustration. I clasped and re-clasped my hands without looking at them. I would not look down, I would not look-

Gosh, my nails needed filing.

"And what precisely was stolen?"

I raised my head and bit my lip. This was the root of the problem – lack of evidence. "Nothing," I admitted before adding hastily, "As far as I'm aware."

If the officer had appeared disbelieving before, it was nothing compared to the sceptical look that now graced his sallow face. He straightened, attempting to feign a well-mannered attitude but it just came off measured and condescending.

This time I couldn't stop the scowl spreading across my face when I heard the non-too flattering comments dotted about his skull. If I'd wanted to be treated like this, I could have arranged a Sunday lunch with my mother just as easily.

"Listen love-"

I don't know about you, but I really object to being called that.

"Well I am terribly sorry for wasting your valuable time," I interrupted smoothly before pivoting sharply away. As I turned, I had a sudden, savage impulse. I skimmed his surface thoughts before twisting back and adding, "But I'm sure page thirteen of the limited edition Marvel comic, the one you've got stuffed under the desk, will still be there at the end of your shift."

It was riding that brutal impulse that I shot him a hugely false, one-hundred watt smile and stalked away, not bothering to wait for a response. All I'd wanted was some simple reassurance. It was unbelievably unsettling to know that a stranger had rifled through my home. Scratch that, unsettling wasn't the right word; it was downright scary.

I'd never used my telepathy that way before and it gave me a shameful thrill to have finally done it. I had a moment's concern for flaunting my abilities, but ultimately dismissed my worries with righteous humour. I fiddled mindlessly with the zip of my open jacket as I headed towards the spotless glass doors. I could just about make out my reflection in the proud, polished floor of New Scotland Yard. But given my visual arrangement, it was hardly surprising when I ran headlong into some poor unsuspecting party. Some poor unsuspecting party with very hot coffee, I might add.

I hissed in pain and sucked air through my teeth as the brown liquid soaked my shirt, burning the skin beneath it. I scratched at it reflexively, swatting furiously to lessen the scald.

"I am so sorry," the man spluttered, casting about uselessly. "Are you alright? Are you burnt?"

His brain informed me this behaviour was decidedly out of character with his unflappable personality. I tore my eyes from the dark stain that'd spread across my front to look at the man. His salt-and-pepper hair was unruffled in the way that male cuts often are; although I'd bet that this particular man's wouldn't have the guts to nap up on him. He had an expression of such undisguised horror that I immediately took pity on him.

"It's fine. It wasn't that hot," I said with a half-forced smile that was meant to be reassuring, suppressing annoyance for my ruined blouse; I'd only got it the day before last.

"Are you sure?" He asked with genuine concern.

When I nodded, he stooped to pick my bag from where it had fallen. I mumbled my thanks when he handed it back. Scrambling for something to say, I failed to come up with anything. What did people say in awkward, protracted situations like this?

"Did you want to come upstairs?" he offered after several heartbeats of silence. "There're some bathrooms up there, if you want to get cleaned up."

I shook my head. "It's kind of you to offer but I'm going home now anyway."

"Oh right." The man scratched behind his ear inattentively, seeking a polite way to take his leave. "Well, once again, I apologise. I wasn't looking where I was going."

"It okay. I can't say I was paying very much attention either, to be honest." I nodded toward the disposable cup in his hands, "I hope there's still some left for you."

Lestrade swirled the ribbed, half-empty cup in a tiny circle, watching the coffee slosh against the edges. "I think there's enough to keep me functioning," he replied with a laugh, the corners of his eye crinkling as he did.

I coughed uncomfortably and seized the opportunity to escape. "Well, it was...nice meeting you-"

"Lestrade."

"Lestrade," I echoed. "Well, I certainly hope your day gets better."

"And I, yours," he said with an amused look. "Have a nice day miss." He dipped his head for a final time and left, making his way towards a discreet door.

I watched him go, noticing how he focussed straight ahead rather than down. Confidence, I mused mildly, could be an elusive thing. Suddenly aware of the chucking great stain down my front, I hurriedly tugged the zipper further up in the hope I could hide the worst of the mess. Walking to the building's automatic entrance, I stepped onto the street and stifled a grimace when I felt a raindrop fall on my forehead. I hunched my shoulders and ducked my head, trying to take up as little space as possible. Voices poured into my unshielded mind, and for a moment I resisted the compulsion to erect a barrier. The lively drone of humanity was oddly comforting and I felt strangely sorry when I finally shut it out.

I hadn't moved ten paces into the sparse crowd before my morning took yet another unsuspected turn. I could identify the chaotic, yet distinguished, click and hum of this mind even through my figurative padding.

"Ah, Spencer."

"Sherlock," I said diplomatically. I struggled against a groan when he proceeded to analyse me. Shifting uncomfortably and pretending not to notice, I concentrated on his companion; whose thoughts were, by contrast, far less intrusive. "John, how are you?"

The shorter man looked at me warmly."I-"

"He's fine," Sherlock interrupted bluntly. Those intimidating eyes were pinned on me again and I shuffled under the weight of his stare. I turned my head and picked out a passer-by at random, lifting the surface thoughts from their head.

_Stupid rain. Why does it have to be so cold anyway? _The innocent monologue came from a dieting secretary who wished she'd had that second bagel.

I turned my attention back to the doctor, sensing he was about to speak.

"Well apparently I'm alright," John rolled his eyes. "But what do I know?" His usual smile softened the jibe. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"Reporting an intruder – somebody broke into her flat," Sherlock supplied impatiently. Without any further preamble, he touched a hand to my left breast. He was scooping up a lone pearl of coffee that had somehow escaped blotting, but that point was lost on me.

I went to bat him away furiously, but his hand was already gone."Hey! What-?"

"Sherlock!"

The man in question was unfazed by our reactions. He brought his fingers to his lips.

_Two and a half sugars. Black. Ground, not filtered._

"Lestrade's in. Come on John."

"Sherlock! You can't just touch people up like that and then walk away!" John's mental track was filled with unsuppressed horror at his flatmate's disregard for my personal space.

"Hmm?" The sound was absent. He eyeballed my shocked face briefly. "Oh, right," he added dispassionately. He'd already moved on to other things, having deemed the in-progress conversation to be of no further value. Sherlock strode into New Scotland Yard without uttering another syllable, chin firmly up, rearranging his navy scarf.

I shut my mouth and pursed my lips. A violent blush made my face feel like a griddle plate. I not-so casually crossed my arms under my breasts.

John, for his part, looked mortified. "I'm so sorry Hannah, I can't take him anywhere."

I was speechless for a few seconds longer, still largely surprised. Then I started to chuckle hopelessly – the only way I could relieve my embarrassment. "It's okay, I guess. I'm getting the idea that it's just him, isn't it?"

"Pretty much so, yeah," John smiled crookedly. "You know, we are just outside a police station, you could report him for assault," he joked.

"Tempting, but I'll let this one slide," I grinned back. I shot a perplexed look in the direction of the pristine glass doors and shook my head to myself. "I'd, uh, say it happens all the time, but it really doesn't." Truthfully, I don't know why I wasn't more horrified. It might have been the candid, almost innocent way he thought - especially considering his fascination with the minuet - but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Mind you, noticing everything like that, what a-

I clamped down hard on that particular notion, kicking it firmly out of my mind.

"Once again, I'm-"

Sherlock reappeared suddenly, barely suppressing his agitation. "Yes, yes, yes, we're all sorry. That's all people ever do: apologise. Now hurry up!" John muttered darkly in response, but complied all the same. Sherlock's eyes swivelled in my direction and he arched a dark brow. "Coming Spencer?"

Like I had a choice.

...

Sherlock flung open the glass door, barging into the airy room without a hint of remorse.

"Show me," he commanded, continuing some undisclosed conversation.

The man behind the desk sighed wearily and nodded a dismissal to his curly-haired colleague, seemingly familiar with his visitor's behaviour. The woman, however, was clearly displeased with Sherlock's presence and openly shot him a glare. He returned it with uncharacteristic cheer.

"Run along now Donovan," he called to her retreating back, taking childish delight at getting in the last word. His eccentric glee increased when she flipped him off.

The man – Lestrade, I realised suddenly – regarded Sherlock witheringly. "Must you antagonise her?" He asked. He leaned forward and propped his forehead on his fingertips, massaging his temples.

"Don't be ridiculous Lestrade," John interjected dryly. "It's too much of a sport."

Sherlock harrumphed and sank into the recently vacated chair, lazily outstretching his legs.

"Do have a seat Sherlock," the older man said sarcastically, exhaling heavily. He waved a hand in the direction of the nearby sofa. "Go ahead – you might as well make yourselves comfortable."

Even without being in the room, Donovan's black thoughts still hovered on the edge of my awareness. I shook my head absently, trying to clear the irritated cloud that'd formed. The movement attracted Lestrade's attention. His eyes widened with recognition.

"I saw you, didn't I, just a moment ago downstairs? I didn't realise you were with them."

To tell the truth, I hadn't either. "Actually, I was brought here under duress," I said, trying my best not to look as completely uneasy as I felt. I hadn't the foggiest as to why he needed me. Sherlock scoffed loudly, which made my fingers twitch at my side. I smothered the impulse to fling him an irritated look. I rolled my eyes but amended my clearly inaccurate statement. "He decided he wanted me up here. In fact, you know what, I'll go. It's really not a problem. Sorry for-"

"Stay."

I twisted to look at him, raising my eyebrows at the order. I pressed my lips together, but ultimately thought better of arguing. Next I'd catch myself 'playing dead' at his behest. "Fine." I directed my next question to the DI, "I'm not intruding, am I?"

"Hardly," he snorted. "He does what he wants most of the time. And gets away with it."

John stirred from his position on the low settee, righting a crick in his neck. "Yeah, why is that anyway?"

"Because, John, I am the best." Sherlock's voice contained not a hint of modesty. "They call on me when they haven't a clue – which is always. You ought to know that by now."

John's tone said that he'd heard this more than once, "Oh yes – that's the one."

His friend was showing off, but I wasn't naive enough to think it was for my benefit; I got the distinct impression that he made a habit of it.

"Defensive posture John," Sherlock admonished distractedly without so much as a lifting his head. "Try not to make it so easy for me."

His flatmate made an exasperated noise but rearranged himself all the same. How he lived with the man, I didn't know.

"Photos Lestrade," Sherlock instructed brusquely.

The Inspector wordlessly passed him the glossy prints. He flipped through the stack, sparing each one no more than a fleeting glance. Completely forgetting myself, I honed in on his thoughts and listened raptly to his process. He picked apart each article individually, spotting microscopic indicators that I couldn't have ever fathomed.

_Wounds –initially deep but get shallower, suggesting that the killer subsequently hesitated. The perpetrator's indecision implies a personal connection to victim, but not so attached that they couldn't commit to the action. The lesions have an unusual scatter; the angle indicates a shorter assailant around the height of 5'5". That fact coupled with the proportionally shallow depths would insinuate a lesser strength- that of woman._

"Case closed." He'd decided that it would be more dramatic to exclude the explanation. "It was the cousin." His face displayed none of the inner satisfaction or pleasure I knew he felt at solving the puzzle.

"What?" Lestrade stammered around a mouthful of coffee. "Come off it. That was too quick, even for you."

"Elsa Beckett. Thirty-eight. Five foot five. She's the victim's cousin." Each fact was plainly enunciated, as if he were speaking someone exceptionally slow.

"The cousin?" Lestrade's expression was careful, as was his question.

John looked on humorously, relishing the fact he wasn't the recipient of Sherlock's intellectual contempt. If I was honest, I too was enjoying the break.

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Aren't I always?" He remarked lazily.

Lestrade smacked his open palm on the desk. "Damn it. We didn't even pick her up." He pulled the desk phone closer and lifted the handset, jabbing numbers frustratedly. It was only moments before he was barking down the receiver. "Donovan, run a search on an Elsa Beckett. Then, when you've found her, bring her in. Collins can go with you." There was a pause while the person on the other end responded. "It really doesn't matter who figured it out, just get to it." He hung up without waiting for reply and went to gather up the photographs. Sherlock stopped him.

"Pass them to Spencer."

"It's Hannah," I corrected irritably. He ignored me. No surprises there. The DI handed them to me, wearing a puzzled expression, and I took them reluctantly, thumbing blankly through the pile. I grimaced when I reached a particularly gruesome one and quickly moved on. "What am I meant to do with these?"

"Look at them," he instructed. "Tell me what you see."

I studied them in bewilderment. "A dead body. Why?" I looked to John for an explanation, but he shrugged his cluelessness.

Sherlock sighed impatiently, "Do it properly."

Like that explained anything. I took a deep breath. "Okay. I see multiple stab wounds but some look deep, some don't. And there's blood, a lot of blood," I said tentatively, recalling what he'd concluded earlier. I looked down again and swallowed hard. "A violent death."

"Suggesting...?"

"That the murderer was either angry or a sadist," I said in a voice that was as small as I felt. I traced the wounds with my eyes and corrected myself. "No, I think they were very, very angry."

"Murder weapon?" His intolerance was a burning itch.

"How should I know? A knife, maybe?"

Sherlock shook his head disgustedly. _They always go for the simplest option._

That annoyed me. What was I? A forensic scientist?

"Well, I apologise for my limited, uninspired guesswork, but my degree didn't exactly cover pathology. Although, if I was honestly striving to show off," I directed the words in Sherlock's direction, "I'd say this was unplanned; impulsive, almost. Jealousy would be my best bet."

Both John and Lestrade looked surprised at my outburst, but more at the tone than the content, I guessed. Sherlock however, was unimpressed.

"Pure conjecture." He steepled two sets of long fingers and studied me over the tips. "Conversely, let us suspend reality and assume you are correct: how do you know?"

Well, I'd taken what his thoughts had told me and gone out on a limb, but I had no idea how to phrase that without, you know, broaching the whole 'Hi-I'm-telepathic' thing. Not a conversation I desired to see through anytime soon.

"People always leave a remnant of their intent," I said by way of explanation. "Evidently that extends to the mark left on dead. I might not be a doctor or a scientist, but any idiot – namely myself – can see that the attacker was exceedingly angry."

Sherlock grunted, apparently unconvinced, but changed the subject abruptly. "Who did you say was in your flat?"

"I didn't." I was surprised when it came out through gritted teeth.

He narrowed his eyes. "Enlighten me." His deductions had slowed, which brought his mental volume down considerably; to an almost normal level. The rhythm and pattern of the hum was vastly different than that of the other men in the room, but then again, I'm not sure why that surprised me. This new, lower and smoother murmur of thought was by no means less fascinating than his standard, albeit intriguing, din.

I stared up at him, attempting to place myself in the scheme of his logic. Where did I stand? It was a good question. We both knew we weren't discussing my intruder. No – he'd moved on, intent on analysing and cataloguing my mismatched reactions and patchwork lies. There I was, standing exposed under his intruding light; waiting for him to either log and file me away, or erase me and forget my existence. My mind was flooded with a subtle tidal wave of complex theories and conceptions that were just sitting there, on his consciousness, waiting to be applied. Dear God, he saw _everything_.

I wanted to crawl under a rock. Gone was the social feeling of comfort I'd felt earlier; I'd lost myself in the intricate possibilities of his intelligence. A growing sensation of panic and isolation crept up my spine, wheedling its way towards my neck and settling tangibly around my shoulders. I blinked, melting back into my own body. Although it had only been for a few surreal seconds, I reddened with the realisation that I had been staring. I gulped; feeling very intimidated and broke eye contact.

"Well?" He was oblivious to my prying. Of course he was.

I dared a look up at him and spoke quietly, "If you're so clever, Mr. Holmes, why don't you figure it out?"

He remained silent but I heard the challenge resonate in his mind.

Oh yes. The game was most definitely on.

* * *

**A/N: **Sorry for the wait! I found this chapter really difficult to get going and it's definitely not my best. Once again, a whopping thank you to the following people for taking the time to leave a note: **sarahelizabeth1993**, **chilly**, **SexyKnickers**, **SensiblyScrewy**, **NotxYetxDead**, **Silvermoon of Forestclan**, **miss vertigo**, **xxkissesandcuddlesxx **and last, but by no means least **Black1Han1d**. You guys helped my keep my mojo! Kudos also goes out to anyone, anywhere, who is following along.

This fic is challenging, in many respects – so go ahead, I've declared open season on any errors!


	4. Deduce Me

**Weighing His Words**

**Chapter Four:**

"**Deduce Me."**

I fumbled to slot my key into the lock but only managed to scratch the brassy metal. Switching my carrier bags over to my left hand so I might make some progress, I hunched over and squinted through the ill-lit gloom, in the hope that I could locate the blasted opening. I felt a childish rush of triumph when it slid home, finally admitting me. Propping it open with my foot, I bustled in without bothering to flick the light on. Adopting what is universally known as the "shopping trip shuffle," I made my way to the apartment's tiny kitchen and promptly dumped the dairy-and-cereal dominated loot onto the counter.

Blowing air through my fringe, I backtracked to the socket and flipped the switch, blinking as my pupils adjusted to the sudden brightness. I set about packing it all away but got bored with the menial task, and began to randomly allocate each item a spot. Now I think about it, the canned pineapple might've ended up under the sink.

I still haven't found it.

I reached for the final bag and tugged it off the side, grunting with the unexpected weight. Evidently the plastic had also misjudged the load and promptly split, which sent the last of my shopping tumbling to the floor.

"Oh poo." I bent to retrieve the fallen objects. Pulling my headphones out, I slid the supplies back onto the bench and quickly shoved them away. Slamming the fridge door shut on the last of the shopping, I frowned at nothing in particular, certain that I had purchased a lettuce. I tugged open the door again and skimmed over the shelves. No luck. Grabbing the receipt off of the side, I scanned down it. Yep – I'd definitely bought one.

Convinced I hadn't put it away, I stepped into the adjoining living room, intent on locating the adventurous vegetable.

"Good evening."

"Oh my God!" I practically jumped out of my skin, my heart pounding in fright.

A man was sitting there, in my modest cream armchair, brandishing an umbrella in one hand and my missing lettuce in the other. I panicked incoherently and cast about for a makeshift weapon.

Tennis Racquet? In the wardrobe. Hockey stick? Given to charity. Handbag? In the kitchen.

He regarded me calmly and closely; almost like I was a peculiar insect that had crawled across his path. He might have been a scientist for all I knew, because in my alarm I hadn't thought to use my one advantage: my telepathy.

I know. I know. I'm still kicking myself.

He regarded me so calmly in fact, that I half expected him to begin checking his nails. "Hannah Spencer, is it?" But of course, from his attitude, he already knew that.

"Who the hell are you?" I spat and instinctively scrambled backwards, determined to put a good few feet between me and the well-dressed, possible psycho that was in my lounge. I stretched myself, trying to discover how he'd broken in, only to be rewarded with an indecipherable hum for my efforts.

"We'll come to that. In the meantime however, if you are going to insist on utilizing foul language, I would be most appreciative if you would hold your tongue." His voice was carefully pitched, almost like he intoned it that way to provoke a specific reaction.

I was torn between irritation and shock. His lips twitched oddly, but I imagined that on anybody else it would have been a smile.

"That's better."

"Don't patronize me," I said through clenched teeth, buying time so I could peek into his mind. I took a few casual steps closer, hoping that closing the distance between us would make him easier to read. It did help a little, but the man -Mycroft, I gathered – required a bit of "squinting" as it were. It was odd – there was something almost familiar about him.

"My dear, if you insist on placing yourself in situations where others around you are of greater intelligence or authority, you are bound to feel inferior."

"I'm sorry? I placed _myself_ in this situation? You're the one who broke in!"

He shook his head at me and tutted - actually tutted!

"Honestly Miss Spencer, you ought to request that the hotel management put in some better lockers. It was far too easy."

I made a strangled noise, struggling to stop my mouth falling open."You were in my locker?"

Mycroft gave the gentlemanly version of a scoff. "Hardly. I had somebody else do that," he paused and began to drum his fingers against the handle of his umbrella. "I believe it was the same man who was tasked with following you," he remarked offhandedly.

"What?" My voice raised a few octaves. I was at a loss as to what a man like Mycroft would want with me – and his brain wasn't exactly helping either. "Why?"

He studied me thoughtfully, with a hint of lofty distain, before gracefully indicating the vacant sofa beside him. "Perhaps you would like to sit? I forget the characteristically fragile nature of women."

My spine went poker straight with irritation and my eyes flashed dangerously. His satisfaction at my reaction lightly brushed my consciousness and I deflated, marginally preventing myself from getting caught up.

"Interesting," he remarked solemnly.

"What is?"

"Both your reactions and yourself – they do not equate."

A red flag appeared, urging me to get out of there. Foolishly, I stayed put. "How so?"

But when Mycroft pressed his lips together, I knew I wasn't going to get an answer. I struggled to penetrate the thick fog of his brain. All I managed to discover was that somehow my responses and personality were out of sync – whatever that meant. I realised with a jolt what was familiar. His mind.

Dear God, there was two of them.

"You're Sherlock's brother?" I asked incredulously before I could stop myself.

His eyes narrowed slightly in thought and I bit my lip. Had I gone too far?

"I will admit there is not much of a family resemblance," he said finally, never taking his eyes off me. I didn't think I'd so much as moved but he spoke again. "Evidently you disagree." He stood suddenly and announced, "Deduce me!"

"Excuse me?"

"Go on," he prompted, waiting for me to elaborate. He sighed exasperatedly when I didn't respond, further proving the shared, brotherly likeness. "You do the same thing every day: you watch, you listen, and then you retort. To an extent, you behave in the same way as my brother and I– you analyse."

I crossed my arms and planted my feet firmly where I stood. I would do nothing that would bring me closer to this man. "I'm nothing like you or Sherlock," I said warily. My pulse had long since slowed but there was a tension in my muscles that refused to dissipate. I reckoned that my body had the right idea; there was just something about Mycroft Holmes that set you on your guard.

"Perhaps, perhaps not," he said airily. "Sherlock observes details and facts; he'll categorize and file them away as necessary. What he refuses to do, however, is pay attention to people. You, my dear, are different."

I realized that I was holding my breath, but couldn't convince myself to release it.

Mycroft paused dramatically, clearly revelling in my discomfort. "You study people. You watch their movements, their actions and reactions. From this you deduce their emotions. One could almost say that you read their very thoughts."

It was with iron will that I suppressed a flinch. I knew I was walking a dangerous line and wasn't sure which would be easier – to fall or remain standing. His eyes glinted, but with what? Satisfaction? Wicked glee? Humour?

Whatever it was, the latter didn't seem likely.

"A lesser being would classify it telepathy, but after all that would be anatomically improbable. You would need the correct combination of genes and deficiencies, diluted chemical exposure and psychological influences; not to mention the extensive mass of other seemingly random and irrelevant environmental factors." He sighed; but whether it was to show the theory disregard or display his distaste for the complex issue, I didn't know.

"My brother once remarked that 'when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth' but I digress."

"What would you call it then?" I interrupted carefully. As hard as I willed myself to stay silent, I just had to know the answer; I was utterly convinced I'd hidden my abilities better than that. Surely I wasn't that easy to read?

"Your apparent 'telepathy?' Isolated intelligence," he said, equally as levelly. He began to adjust his cufflinks. On him, the action seemed deliberate and measured, rather than absent.

My question was a burning itch, one that I couldn't ignore or alleviate. I swallowed before asking, strengthening my resolve. "Do you believe that? That I'm telepathic?" I added hesitantly. I almost kicked myself, regretting it instantly; I might as well have skipped down the M1 with a chocking great sign.

Mycroft turned his attention back to me; with the same lazy quality that his brother occasionally adopted. "What I believe does not matter; the fact serves no purpose in the plot."

"Plot? So this is a game to you. A story?"

"Hardly, but my opinions are irrelevant at this stage. However I will disclose this: if any of the two theories has even the smallest shred of truth in them Miss Spencer, you are a liability."

"A liability? You don't even know me! Why the sudden interest?" When I looked up, his face betrayed no hint of emotion. His thoughts were much the same story: discreet and controlled. I glanced away, feeling myself shrink under the older man's watchful eye.

He waited with seeming patience for a moment but continued when I didn't turn back. "I spend an unseemly amount of time cleaning up after my brother. Do not give me cause to do the same for you."

I gulped, thinking that it sounded an awful lot like a threat. "You have no intention of harming me." My voice wasn't quite as steady as I would have hoped.

Mycroft smiled coldly. Clearly he was loving the melodrama. "That remains to be seen."

Who was this guy? Voldemort?

"Will you talk to Sherlock about me?" I sounded like a scolded youth who'd just trekked mud up the stairs.

Mycroft smirked outwardly. "And ruin his little game with you? I hardly think so." He stood to go; hooking the wooden handle of his umbrella over his right arm so he could brush down his already impeccable suit. "Oh and when you depart for Baker Street, you would do well not to forget the yoghurt."

"Yoghurt?" I asked stupidly.

Mycroft ignored me. "We will be watching, Miss Spencer. Make no mistake." He strode slowly to the door, managing to make even that look dignified.

I stared after him for a moment before my brain caught up."Just uh...one more question," I called.

He turned, obviously annoyed that I had ruined his oh-so carefully orchestrated dramatic exit.

I averted my gaze, half-fearing his reaction. "Can I please have my lettuce back?"

...

Feeling undeniably stupid, I clutched the tub of natural yoghurt in one hand and knocked on the door with the other. I looked uneasily over my shoulder, partly expecting to sight a certain balding head watching from across the street. I lifted my knuckles to rap again, but it swung open underneath my touch. Standing in the doorway was a very disgruntled looking John.

"Oh hi Hannah." His frustrated look smoothed into a smile; which I returned. "What can I do for you?"

"I was told to bring yoghurt," I said, indicating the blasted container. I hoped he knew what I was talking about, because I certainly didn't. The thick liquid sloshed cheerfully with the movement.

John was confused for a moment, but he cottoned on quickly. Living with Sherlock must do that to people. "He didn't make you bring it all the way over here, did he?"

I grinned wryly at John's remembrance of a similar event involving milk.

"It depends which 'he' you mean. If we're talking about Sherlock, then no. If, however, you mean his older and possibly murderous brother, you've hit the nail on the head. The man isn't half as scary as he thinks he is." A chill raced down my spine, even at my own mention.

I am such a liar.

"How do you know Mycroft?"

I gave a short, humourless laugh. "I don't. He just let himself into my flat."

John gave me a sympathetic look, all too familiar with that form of behaviour. "They do that, don't they?"

I nodded my agreement; I didn't need to ask who he was referring to.

John stepped back and waved me in amicably."Come on up. I think we've still got milk." John trudged up the stairs and I followed, bracing myself for the certain telepathic onslaught.

I wasn't disappointed.

The closer I got to the living room, the louder the buzzing got. I squared my shoulders and prepared myself for some serious mental, and likely verbal, abuse. John, clearly braver then I, pushed open the lounge door. There was a loud bang from upstairs, followed by a series of other smaller thumping noises. The doctor sighed.

_I sincerely hope that he's rearranging my furniture and not messing with the plumbing. _

I didn't even peep to discover that that was in fact what Sherlock was doing.

_Wrong. Wrong. Wrong, _he chided himself silently. _You need a bigger pipe. Factor in volume and the pressure of the water, multiplying it by the area and taking note of the material's structurally insubstantial properties..._

"Hannah's here!" John called and bustled straight into the kitchen. Intent on making some tea, he encountered minor difficulties when it came to both procuring the ingredients and manoeuvring around the complicated, scientific looking clutter. Sherlock must have somehow noticed this too and a muffled yell came from upstairs.

"Don't open the bread bin!"

John paused warily, hand frozen mid-reach. His eyes widened as he assumed the worst. "Why?"

We waited for a moment but the reply was incoherent. Another dull thud was echoed by several metallic clangs.

John tried again, "What?"

"He said he's got some fingers airing in there," I supplied quietly, feeling decidedly queasy.

John paled slightly. "I'll take your word for it." He opened the fridge cautiously, checking for other discarded body parts. He scowled when he couldn't locate the milk. "Blast! I only got it the other day. What on earth has he done with it?"

"Err, John?" I pointed mutely to a large pitcher sitting innocently on the counter. I shuddered – I didn't even want to know if that was a human tongue in the jug.

"I'll go and see if Mrs. Hudson will lend us some," he shook his head to himself. "Make yourself comfortable, though you might want to stay in the living room – less chance of encountering limbs there." His eyes crinkled around the corners. He ambled off downstairs which left me alone, once again, in their flat.

There was a shrill noise from the floor above, pursued by the unmistakable sound of squirting water. Sherlock appeared in the doorway, moments later, sopping wet. Small puddles were forming around his feet where the pipe water was pooling.

"Not a word," he warned, trudging over to the green sofa while tugging off his wet shirt and dropping it carelessly to the floor.

I pressed my hand to my mouth to stifle a laugh. Call me crazy, but the sight of Sherlock's curls plastered to his forehead was somewhat amusing."Wouldn't dream of it," I chuckled.

He scowled darkly at me and narrowed his eyes. Now normally that would have made me squirm, but since Mycroft had kind of topped the freaky factor for the evening, I stayed put.

But seriously - somebody needed to feed the guy a sandwich.

"Pass me that shirt would you?" He had outstretched his hand even before he'd finished speaking.

Arrogant much?

I scooped the light blue bundle from where it had been discarded and tossed it to him. Sherlock threw himself on the settee and began to examine his arm. I spied three nicotine patches stuck in a crude triangle to his pale skin. I decided I wasn't even going to ask. I took a deep breath and plunged straight in with what was sitting foremost on my mind. "I met your brother today."

Sherlock sat up sharply with a frown, tugging down his sleeve.

"What could he possibly want with you?" He asked bluntly. His eyes strayed to the abandoned violin, causing me to take a nonchalant step in front of the bookcase. I'd heard about Sherlock's music through John. If he noticed my motives, he didn't pass comment.

"Well he wanted me to bring you yoghurt for a start," I gestured vaguely to where I'd left it. "What do you need it for anyway?"

Sherlock pinned me with a look that told me that he didn't believe I was intelligent enough to understand.

Never mind then.

He began to leaf through a discarded book, but didn't pause long enough between each page turn to be reading it properly. "He threatened you, did he not?" I nodded quietly. "Interesting."

That was a lie – he wasn't bothered in the slightest. It was odd, however, that he troubled to at all. I let that one pass.

"And how did you react?"

"I told him that he had no desire to hurt me."

"I wouldn't put it past him. Mycroft can be very determined when he wishes."

I worried at my lip, but spoke anyway. "And you can't?"

Sherlock flipped the page dismissively and settled further into the depressed sofa. I heard John coming up the stairs behind me, but chose not to face the noise.

"I'm simply saying that if he felt inclined to eliminate you, then he would do so without remorse."

I blinked, taken aback by his affront. I folded my arms and spoke just as his flatmate entered the room. "And that's supposed to make me feel better?"

"Not in the slightest." He meant it this time too. I found it strange how Sherlock could wrap his mind so extraneously around something.

John looked uneasily between the two of us, sensing the tension. "Problem?" I shook my head with a smile that I didn't mean. "There won't be any tea, I'm afraid. Mrs Hudson says that her milk has also mysteriously vanished," he directed the last part at Sherlock, who shrugged.

"I informed you that there wouldn't be any."

"When?"

"Just now," he said matter-of-factly. He leapt to his feet suddenly and began to stalk the width of the room. I'll tell you now that his volume of thought picked up something fierce. John did a double take when he noticed his friend's wet hair but let it slide with an understated eye roll.

Sherlock turned to me and demanded, "Did Mycroft figure it out?"

At first, I didn't understand what he was talking about, what with all the mental noise and everything. I finally caught his drift thanks to a stray, particularly distinguished - and by that I mean really loud - thread. I saw an opportunity to get up Sherlock's nose, as it were, and seized it, replying with a hint of savage glee.

"He did actually," I said simply, deciding to stretch the truth. I tried and failed to stop a smirk spreading across my face.

Naturally, Sherlock noticed and scowled like a four year old who'd just been put in the naughty corner. I instantly wondered if I had made the wrong decision.

John, bless him, was baffled. "Wh-"

"Don't bother."

One pace. Two paces. Three paces.

_Reactions are off, always together; never one before the other. Her responses are too quick, yet they're seemingly formulated and valued before she speaks; meaning she would have to be anticipating a direct idea and begin thinking three fractions of a seconds faster than average._

"But Sherlock-"

"Shh!"

_Unlikely –she doesn't seem logical enough. Example, the photographs. Missed the scatter pattern and the connotation behind visible range in depth; indicators that I fathomed immediately. Doesn't focus on plain sight, instead looks to the psychological and emotional influences. Why?_

Four. Five. Six.

_Fact – she's female. Women are in general more reliant on passion and feeling. However, that would not account for her irregular behaviour, which initially suggests hyper-intelligence or unparalleled cognition. Incorrect – previously disproved. _

Seven. Eight. Nine.

John tried again. "If you've-"

"I said quiet!" He roared.

My initial triumph had faded and I recoiled in fright; partly from his outburst but mostly from the sheer degree of assault that was ricocheting around my skull. I lifted a shaky hand to my right temple. I was no longer fascinated, and at that point, I don't think I had enough energy left to be terrified. The best I could do was to stand there, in mute horror and watch the brilliant, gleaming mind of the world's only Consulting Detective dissect and challenge the fundamental roots of my existence. Sherlock was there, pacing back and forth, in front of me but he was also firmly lodged inside my head.

Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

_Observe! Eye contact – made and broken strangely; confidence issues or social discomfort would manipulate it to a certain extent, however the effect would not be absolute. Again her responses; turned to face a speaker two, no, three times before they indicated their intent. Once with Lestrade, twice with John. Possibly due to – _

"Shut up!" I yelled suddenly, applying pressure fiercely to my banging head; anything to alleviate the relentless throbbing. It was only when the incessant, telepathic racket suddenly ceased, that I recognized my error:

I'd shouted into silence.

* * *

**A/N: **Question: does Mycroft really believe in telepathy? Answer: does anybody ever really know what Mycroft believes?

In response to **Laudine**, yes I'm familiar with the Southern Vampire Mysteries. Actually, I only got as far as the beginning of the third book before I was distracted by Harry Potter. Again. I'll apologise in advance for any inadvertent similarities between the two. I'm working hard to make Hannah's approach to telepathy a little different to Sookie's.

This idea simply spawned from the desire to pit Sherlock against something that his rational mind **would not **like one little bit. Sherlock's computer says no! (British joke...had to be done. Sorry!)

Shout-outs, like always, for the following for taking the time to comment: **Hazel**, **sarahelizabeth1993**, **Laudine**, **SexyKnickers**, **SensiblyScrewy**, **Black1Han1d**, **Silvermoon of Forestclan **and **x-Pick'n'Mix-x**.


	5. Endless Summers and Flake 99s

**Weighing His Words**

**Chapter Five:**

"**Endless Summers and Flake 99s."**

I stood stock still, momentarily frozen with stunned horror. Then I committed myself to the only rational, logical and mature conclusion that could possibly defuse the situation:

I got the hell out of there.

Like the coward I was, I flew down the carpeted stairway, taking the steps two at a time in my haste. Bursting past a bewildered Mrs. Hudson, I fled through the door of 221B and out onto the pavement. There were no footsteps behind me and I hadn't expected any. I was pretty sure that it wasn't Sherlock's style to chase random women through the streets of London.

Suddenly aware that my flight would draw strange looks from passers-by, I slowed my strides to a more normal pace when I joined the path that accompanied the main road. As usual, my gaze dropped to the ground.

Because it just wouldn't do to draw more attention to myself, now would it?

I checked the time on my phone's display but shoved it back into my bag without really looking. After all, it wasn't like I had anywhere important to be on a Thursday night. Pushing my hair behind my ears, I turned my attention back to the matter at hand. Ducking further into my coat (partly out of shame, partly out of a need for warmth) I considered that fact that I'd just inadvertently revealed my secret to the one man, in the whole bloody world, who would give me grief for it.

Nice one Hannah.

I stomped angrily along the footpath, barely able to contain my self-directed irritation. I began to wander in the direction of the nearest play park, intent on sitting listlessly on the swing-set until I came up with a suitable course of action.

What? It was cold, it was dark, a creep had broken into my flat and I had just blown my cover. By this point, I figured I was due a little childish joy.

I plonked myself down on the warped plastic seat and tucked my legs underneath my torso, letting the movement propel me forward. Instead of leaning back and swinging properly like I secretly wanted to, I rested my cheek against the cool, iron chain. I took a deep breath and exhaled softly, trying to bring my thoughts to some form of order. The banging headache that always seemed to succeed Sherlock was already beginning to fade; even the meagre distance that I'd managed to put between us helped to ease the tension.

So Sherlock knew I was telepathic – big deal. Or at least that was what I tried to convince myself of; the words sounded disturbingly feeble. I toyed with a loose thread on the sleeve of my coat, winding the thin, black line absently around my little finger. I watched as the wind played with the pathetically miserable trees across the street, and shivered, turning my collar up against the chill.

It certainly didn't feel like March.

With considerable effort, I wrestled my mind back into the present. At least he hadn't seen fit to follow me outside; there was no telling what other stupid reaction I might have had. No, I decided, if he wasn't here then he wasn't fussed. But the words didn't settle quite as placidly as I would have liked.

Still, he was probably lying on that sofa, fingers steepled, attempting to puzzle me out - with goodness knows how many nicotine patches stuck to that arm of his. Alternatively, he might have dismissed me completely, instead turning his attention back to the oh-so pressing matter of the human digits in his breadbin. I probably was flattering myself by assuming the intrigue I would cause the detective. I shook my head to clear my thoughts and decided firmly that that was the case.

I would go home, shove something in the microwave and find some rubbish to watch on television until I fell asleep. Tomorrow, I would go to work and carry on as normal. Sherlock would be distracted by a case; John would be dragged along on the aforementioned escapade; Lestrade would clean up after the pair; and Mycroft, well, Mycroft would carry on doing whatever the hell it is that he usually does. I, for one, would carry on making other people's beds and folding their towels using origami. We would go back to running in our separate circles, content in the knowledge that our paths would never again cross.

At which point, insert disbelieving scoff.

I pushed the strap of my handbag further up my shoulder and leaned back in the seat, kicking my legs outward in order to swing. The familiar motion brought back childhood memories of endless summers and Flake 99s, brought from the local ice cream truck with the money begged from our mothers. I smiled at the simplicity of it all, but found that surprisingly I didn't wish to go back. I remembered all too clearly the ins and outs of playground politics, and concluded that the workplace wasn't really that much different.

I kicked my legs harder, filled with a childish urge to go higher. I laughed at my own antics, but privately I was pleased that I hadn't truly grown up.

"Hannah!"

In my surprise, I nearly fell of the seat. I looked up to see John, his cheeks ruddy with the cold, coming toward me. Blushing at the fact that my juvenile behaviour had been witnessed, I planted my feet firmly on the ground, forcing the swing to a stop.

"John?" I asked, even though his thoughts had already confirmed his identity.

"Yep. Are you all right?"

I laughed, tilting my head back."I'm okay. I was just reconciling with my inner child."

He smiled good naturedly in return, apparently unfazed by my conduct, but the look soon faded into one of concern. "Are you sure? You seemed pretty rattled back there."

"That was nothing," I joked lightly. "You should see me when I get locked in the laundry room at work." He didn't laugh with me. I sighed, watching the street lamps across from me flicker on and off, apparently unconvinced by the level of light.

"Hannah, what was that?"

I avoided his question tactlessly by asking one of my own, "So Sherlock sent you?"

"Not in so many words exactly, no. He takes one look at me, said 'she's at the park' and then disappears into his room." John shook his head. "I've long given up guessing how he does it. Do you mind?" He asked, gesturing to the vacant seat beside me.

I shook my head, but was already silently dreading the conversation that was bound to follow. "Be my guest.

"Cheers." He settled awkwardly on the plastic seat, his sombre expression looking oddly out of place next to all the childhood relics that surrounded us. I didn't need to glance at him to know he was uneasy. He wasted no time in getting to the point. "So you're like Sherlock then, are you?"

I laughed despite myself, hoping to put the two of us at ease."Dear God, I'm not that bad, am I?" An answering, impish grin flickered across his face. I sighed again. "Look, if you want a real explanation, I can't give you one. I suppose that in a way, yes, I am like him; if by that you mean seeing and understanding things that other people don't."

"That wouldn't explain your outburst," John said pointedly.

"That's where the detective and I differ." I hesitated briefly, hardly believing that I was having this conversation. "Sherlock sees things. Me on the other hand, I...I hear things, okay?" Now I definitely wasn't looking at him.

"But that still doesn't-"

"Think John," I met his gaze for all of a second, before I chickened out, "Contrary to Sherlock's beliefs, you are clever."

He fell silent for a moment."But you would have to be psychic to..." I grimaced. He trailed off, his eyes widening. "No. You can't be saying...but how would that...that would be...impossible," he stammered finally.

"Hey, you're the one who rooms with an impossible man," I pointed out. The whole situation felt unreal.

He frowned. "Yeah, but that's science and logic. Psychics are just fakes with bad adverts in the backs of newspapers."

Gee, thanks John.

"Look. I've told you that I can't explain it." I took a risk, "But how else would I know that you're planning to get your sister, Harry, that burgundy scarf you saw two weeks ago for her birthday."

John went very still. "How could you possibly know that?"

I shot him a direct look, forgetting my discomfort for a moment. "You said it yourself, I'm telepathic," I said simply, having decided that he needed some direct convincing.

John laughed loudly. "Oh, come on. How do I know that Sherlock didn't simply tell you that?"

I shrugged."You don't. But you do know, like I do, that Sherlock would never volunteer irrelevant information."

He sobered up as that sank in, realizing that I was right. He looked at me cautiously, expecting me to come forward and admit that it was a joke. His usually cheerful thoughts were closely guarded, and quite frankly, shaky.

"Go on then," he said stiffly. "So what am I thinking?"

I waited a moment before answering, still fearing some other reaction. "I don't know. Your thoughts are just a vague hum at the moment. I'm not listening in because I want to leave you your privacy."

I felt strangely embarrassed that he knew I could "hear" him; it was like being caught going through someone's drawers. But my reply seemed to ease his mind somewhat and I felt him loose some of his tension.

"Go ahead. You have my permission. Just this once, okay?" He added hastily.

I smiled at him. "Of course," I was quiet while I listened in on John's mind. Naturally he was a bit apprehensive at having a near-stranger in his head, but on the whole, he was quite relaxed about it; more so than I was, anyway.

I tell you, it was strange being invited in. To be honest, I think I found the experience more invasive than John. It was just something about the fact that he knew that I knew – if that makes any sense at all.

"You were thinking about Afghanistan," I said, ducking out of the doctor's mind. "About how you felt when you were flying out for the first time."

John was startled to have it confirmed, but admirably he didn't show it. "And how was I feeling?"

I cast my eyes downwards, wishing that he'd chosen a less personal memory. "You were determined; you had no illusions as to what it would be like."

"And what else?" He prompted. I could tell that he was becoming more eager by the minute.

"You were also worried. Not for yourself, but for Harry. Although you hadn't spoken for weeks, you hoped that she would be able to look after herself while you were gone." I felt a rush of warm friendship for John, glad that he'd turned out a genuine man. I couldn't quite say the same for his flatmate.

"So it's true then? You really can read my mind?" He gave a low whistle. It was strange that his voice was so level, but after all he'd seen war firsthand. Despite the evidence, a small cloud of doubt remained in his mind. I couldn't say I blamed him; I'd been very sceptical when I'd first found out – and it was my own head.

"Yes," I said quietly. "I definitely 'hear' things as opposed to see them. I'm not quite as clever as Sherlock," I added with a wry laugh. I regarded him thoughtfully, "You're taking this very calmly."

"Am I?" His eyes crinkled around the edges. "I don't know. I guess after Sherlock, I'm pretty much prepared for anything. How did you expect me to react?" He asked curiously.

"I'm not exactly sure," I admitted. "I think part of me expected you to call me a freak and run away screaming."

"Me? Never. I might run away, but I'd never scream," John chuckled.

I grinned at that, glad that he'd decided to accept me. "Good to know."

The dark shape of a bird caught my attention. I followed it with my eyes, tracing its effortless path in the sky.

"So, how did it happen?"

"I don't really know, to be honest. One day, I was normal; the next, bam, I could hear everything." I shifted in the seat, hoping to instil some feeling into my very numb behind.

"And that's it?" He asked disbelievingly.

I sniggered privately at the theories that he'd come up with. "As far as I know. It was three years ago now, I think. I remember having a massive headache, but then again, all the alcohol and the strobe lighting can't have helped the situation."

He nodded even though I hadn't really given him an answer. "What about your family? Are they...like you?"

"Nope. My mum's a secretary and my dad was working in a warehouse, the last time I saw him. The rest of my family is pretty strange - but more in a mundane, eat-a-banana-with-a-knife-and-fork kind of way."

John seemed disappointed. "How does it work, exactly? I mean, it is your brain, or...?" He trailed off.

I chuckled nervously. "Well, most of the time, people's thoughts are all just one big, low murmur – kind of like a fly buzzing in my ears – only less intrusive. I can put a sort of barrier up, to keep it that way, but things leak through sometimes. Unless people "shout" or I focus on one particular mind, the thoughts stay very generic. If I touch someone, it's more difficult to get a straightforward idea; I just pick up emotions and such." I picked at a cuticle – a habit I'd picked up from my mother. "About the configuration of my brain, I haven't the foggiest. I've never been dissected before."

"Oh." There was an awkward silence. He scratched at his chin. "So how did your friends react when you told them?"

"As awful as it sounds, I haven't. But I don't really have many, more out of choice than anything else. It is difficult finding someone genuine, you know? They say one thing when they're thinking another and the whole friendship becomes just so complicated," I shrugged. "It's easier on both parties if I don't bother and besides, I'm not truly fussed by it."

John raised his eyebrows."So Sherlock and I are the only ones who know?"

I nodded."Well, you two and Mycroft. Possibly." I still hadn't puzzled him out. I studied him while wondering at myself. "It's funny; I don't usually go on like this. I guess you caught me at a good time."

John looked away, appraising the horizon. "At least you've given Sherlock some food for thought. He had the nicotine patches out when I left." I groaned, burying my face in my hands. John nudged me lightly in the ribs. "If he starts harassing you, at least you can give Lestrade a ring."

"As if Lestrade can keep him under control," I scoffed, but it turned into a sigh. "Great. He's probably lounging on the sofa, working out all the possible genetic combinations that could produce such an anomaly."

"Better that than pacing," John smiled sympathetically. "You know you're in trouble when he does that. Cheer up, it'll take him a while to come up with a conclusion that'll fit into his idea of the universe, and then you can look forward to setting him straight."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Sherlock isn't taken by anything that can't be explained by science. Since it's highly unlikely that he's ever encountered anything on the subject before, he's left with nothing. You've only met him a couple of times, and although he's probably picked you apart on each occasion, he won't have seen what he wasn't looking for."

I must have looked puzzled because he elaborated. "In short, if you tell him what you've just told me, he's not going to like that version one little bit."

Finally the light flicked on. I can be so slow sometimes, seriously.

"You know, for a man who gets called stupid several times a day, you're actually pretty smart."

"Why thank you," he said with a grin, inclining his head in mock humour.

I realized with a start that we had been talking for over half an hour. It was now well and truly dark and I wasn't going to appreciate the herculean task of flagging down a taxi at this hour.

"It's been good talking, but I've got work tomorrow. You don't mind if I get going, do you?"

"No, not at all. I'd best start Sherlock-sitting duty about now, anyway."

"Sherlock-sitting?"

"Yeah," he said with a vigorous nod. "His brain will be worse than a toddler's on skittles. It's probably better if I'm around to supervise when he starts fiddling with chemicals."

"That bad, eh?"

"And the rest." I winced in sympathy for the poor man, hoping that he had some scotch stashed somewhere. "Can I ask you one more question?" He looked like a nervous school boy who wasn't sure if he was about to get his knuckles rapped or not.

"Shoot."

"Does it not get lonely? Having no one to relate to?"

"Nah," I smiled kindly and waved a dismissive hand. "I'm surrounded by the buzz of humanity a lot of the time; how could anyone possibly feel alone?"

"I don't know," he shrugged. "I just wondered."

"It was a good question, but no, I definitely don't feel isolated, if that's what you mean."

John stirred suddenly, "I'll let you be off. Did you want me to wait with you until you get a cab?"

I was warmed by his concern. "Thanks for the offer, but don't worry about it." My lips twitched. "You'd better go and make sure that he hasn't collapsed from a nicotine overdose."

The way John paled told me he hadn't even considered that.

...

The next day was considerably better; nobody broke into my flat, I didn't receive any partially disguised death threats and best of all, I didn't have to deal with the Spanish Inquisition à la Sherlock.

Plus it was a Friday.

I went about my work unusually energised. Despite having restocked my cart, I folded all the towels into little roses and arranged the flower-scented soaps around them in a fit of good humour. I was so bubbly in fact, that several of my colleagues asked if I was okay.

"Are you alright Hannah?" Asked Lucy; the petite, blonde maid was also assigned to the fourth floor.

"I'm good. Just happy, that's all."

She laughed cheerfully. I might have been exaggerating last night when I said I didn't have many genuine friends - Lucy was about as sweet as they come. Plus she ticks me in if I'm running a little late.

"Any particular reason? Did you get a new boyfriend?"

I sighed ruefully at the thought. "Me? Nope. Today just makes yesterday look like Christmas, that's all." I began to pile up some fluffy white towels, balancing them precariously on the edge of the trolley.

"Why, what went wrong?"

Hmm, where to start?

"Just lots of little things. I had to traipse halfway across London with a tub of natural yoghurt."

She chuckled again. "Mothers can be like that," she said with a sigh. "Just the other day, mine had me drop everything and go to Argos to replace her toaster." I didn't have the heart to correct her. She turned to go, but paused. "Oh, yeah, I almost forgot, I promised Matt that I'd speak to you."

"Matt?"

"Yeah. He's the maître d' in the restaurant; the young one." Uh-oh, I could see where this was going. "We go way back. He keeps meaning to catch you, but you're never around. He asked if he could call you." The heat in my cheeks was unbelievable. Lucy continued, "I think the two of you would get on – he's got a great sense of humour and he's really sweet."

"Is he the one with dark hair?"

"Yep."

An image of the man appeared in Lucy's mind. I studied it thoughtfully, putting the name to the face. I realized I did know Matt; he was the one who always said good morning and held the door open for me on the way in. Lucy's thoughts were as good as her words; he was a charming man and she had nothing but fond memories of him.

"Go on Hannah, it's just the one date and there's no pressure for a second." She looked at me shyly. "Besides, I'm worried about you; you're always on your own."

I smiled, touched by her concern. I took a deep breath and what-the-hecked it. "I think we could give it a go. It seems a shame not to bother."

Her kind face lit up. She clapped her hands together. "I'm glad you agreed. I'd have felt completely stupid if my only attempt at matchmaking had fallen through! Can I give him your number? It'll be less awkward for you that way." I nodded, and scribbled it down on a hotel issue notepad before I could wimp out. She beamed at me. "I'll slip it to him before I leave tonight."

"Well, tell Matt I'm looking forward to seeing him." It was true. I hadn't been out on a date in so long and the idea had further lightened my mood. "Anyway, I'd better go and sort this room out – it's one of those bloomin' deluxe packages."

"I hate those too. The feather mattress toppers are a pain to get on straight," Lucy smiled in understanding. She picked a stray hair off her sleeve. "If you need a hand, give me a shout."

"Thanks, will do."

I watched as she strode down the hall, stopping to let guests pass. It wasn't that the corridors were particularly narrow; we were expected to acknowledge the presence of the clients by halting our duties. It's a complete waste of time, if you ask me, since we'd get things done far quicker if we didn't have to stop every time somebody went down for a swim. Still, I'd rather work up here than at the Concierge. Every time I get treated badly, I just pop downstairs and emerge feeling much better. At least with valet parking, they get a tip.

It's honestly that bad.

After struggling with the oversized topper and being almost smothered to death (I'd have felt guilty bothering Lucy – she was hurrying to finish so she could meet her fiancée for lunch), I finally made my way toward the staff lift that would take me to the lower levels. I pushed the correct button, humming quietly, and decided impulsively to treat myself and go out for my lunch hour.

After depositing my cart in the bay, I pushed open the heavy fire-door that led to the ladies cloakroom. I retrieved my long coat from its hanger and shrugged it on, belting it over my uniform. Grabbing my purse from my locker, I slammed it shut and twisted the key in the slot. I had less than an hour for lunch and I was fully intent on enjoying it.

Venturing out into the afternoon sun, I closed the door behind me, but before I could turn around, I noticed something that made my heart sink. The overly-familiar mental roar was less than four metres away. I shielded my eyes from the brightness and squinted in the direction of the disturbance. Sure enough, the one man that I didn't wish to see was lounging disinterestedly against the wall.

Well hell, there went my good day.

* * *

**A/N: **I'm sitting here with a cup of tea, having just realised that there are, in fact, crumpets in my cupboard. I'm so English! XD Apologies you've had to wait longer than usual, I've been off sick and haven't remotely felt like writing, but now I'm back to inflicting my wretched plot upon the unfortunate fanfiction community! Wahey.

I've given a lot of thought to my plot, and, brace yourselves, I'm going to mess with "The Great Game." But panic not, my friends, I'm not removing anything. There's something I think I'm going to do, but it'll slot in right at the start of the episode. My reasoning is that if you threw in an extra character it's unlikely that things would stay totally the same. (And besides, it simply would be no fun for me to regurgitate the script, would it?)

Shout-out to the following for super-mega-foxy-awesome-hot reviews (Kudos if you recognise the reference): **sarahelizabeth1993**, **Black1Han1d**, **supenman**, **Laudine**, **KitchenCupboard**, **SensiblyScrewy**, **Miss Write Away**, **SexyKnickers**, **Silvermoon of Forestclan**, **kitsmits**, **xxkissesandcuddlesxx**, **Look-Me-Up**, **RavenImperatrix**, **sazyboo**, **Amelli-Kara**, **LexieBird** and **daydreambuff**.

Have a very merry Christmas folks!


	6. The Fork in the Toaster

**Weighing His Words**

**Chapter Six:**

**"The Fork in the Toaster"**

The low sunlight caught his hair, making it appear lighter than it actually was. His ever present scarf curled around his neck and his stiff, navy collar was turned up, as usual, against his skin. How he got it to stay that way was beyond me. I scowled at the tall figure, peeved that he'd managed, yet again, to ruin a good day. In a fit of black humour, I didn't offer a greeting.

"Have you really got nothing better to do?" I demanded irritably.

Much to my annoyance, his face remained impassive. "At the moment, no."

I opened my mouth to speak, but found that (sadly and quite pathetically, actually) I didn't have anything valuable to add. I sauntered past him, refusing to let what should be a good lunch hour slip from my grasp. The location of the roar told me that he hadn't moved. Against my better judgement, I stopped suddenly, my curiosity having won out.

"What are you doing here?"

He narrowed his eyes and raised his chin slightly. "Come now Spencer; you already know."

I suppressed an exasperated noise –but it was true. I knew full well why he'd come. I started again in the direction of the street but Sherlock's voice sounded behind me.

"You know, if you're waiting for a call it is probably best to have your phone on your person."

I swallowed a curse when I realised he was right. Stomping back inside, I pushed the door open roughly. Like many, my teenage years had taught me that taking out one's frustration on inanimate objects generally alleviated the sensation. Crossing the changing room quickly, I seized my lock and inserted the key, turning it roughly. I grabbed my phone from where it sat on the inside shelf and stuffed it into my coat pocket without ceremony.

"You are aware this is a female cloakroom, right?" I asked drily. The over-projected click and hum had followed me into the building and I could pinpoint, without so much as a backwards glance, precisely where he stood.

"I read the sign, yes."

I took what I hoped would be a calming breath before facing him, resolving to keep my cool – because that usually works so well where Sherlock's concerned.

He'd cocked a dark brow. "You seem to do that an awful lot."

"Do what?"

"Inhale deeply." He frowned slightly, "I'm not quite sure what outcome you hope to achieve."

"It calms you down, supposedly," I said, emphasising the last word.

He shifted, drawing back a little to study me. "Interesting. It doesn't appear to have worked."

His voice had a dry note which rendered me surprised – maybe he wasn't as unfeeling as I'd made him out to be. However, I didn't let that stop me from shooting him a direct look. I stifled a scoff. "I wonder why that is?"

He took my question literally, choosing to ignore my plain use of irony – which was odd given he was clearly well versed in sarcasm. Perhaps it was to annoy me, perhaps not; I harboured no doubts that he the capacity to be petty. I sat back as he worked it out, smiling quietly at his expense.

"Yes," he mused, thinking back to the previous evening's events. The scene of my panicked flight played with shocking detail in his mind. "I do seem to bring out strange reactions in you."

Well that was one way of putting it.

At as loss as to how to reply, I rearranged the strap of my handbag to a more position higher up on my shoulder. We were both quiet for a moment, but for very different reasons. I tucked my fringe behind my right ear and plunged ahead with an offer that had all the makings of a very bad idea.

But I had to know.

"Come on then," I sighed. "Let's go get some coffee."

"Coffee?"

"Yes Sherlock," I said with exaggerated slowness. "It's what people do when they have something heavy they need to talk about."

He trapped me with an unnerving stare and I shrank back. "And do we have something of that nature to discuss?"

I nodded grimly; my jaw had set itself determinedly. "Yes. We do."

...

I sank gratefully into the vacant, overstuffed armchair at the table I'd selected, glad that I was finally off my feet. We were sitting in the window of an out-of-the-way coffee shop and the opportunity for people watching would make for a decent excuse not to maintain eye contact. I knew that arming myself for such reasons was cowardly but I'm going to assume you've never been in the same room as him.

Along with a very expensive sandwich, I placed the two steaming mugs on the slightly greasy, wooden surface; one full of tea and the other, black coffee. Reaching for the latter, I wrapped my hands around it, letting the heat seep into my grateful palms. I took a sip, feeling the hot, faintly bitter liquid slide down my throat. I looked over the rim at my companion, who'd left his own cup sitting on the table.

"Why?" He asked bluntly. His limited supply of patience had been used up in line for the till.

"Well, what do you think?" I replied carefully.

He began to rifle through the possibilities in his head and I sat back, allowing him his little process. He spoke sooner than I anticipated, forcing me to lean forward and pay attention before I could get my thoughts in order.

"I think that you have John fooled." _Not that such a thing would be impossible – the man looks for the answers that he wishes to see. _

My lips thinned. His assumed authority always managed to try my patience, made worse by the fact that his method was so rarely flawed.

His attention shifted back to me. _Body language is displeased; she has evident affection for John._

What? No. Where had that come from?

"I'm not interested in John right now," I said stiffly. I was relieved that I hadn't blushed – I certainly didn't need Sherlock to house any ideas of the sort. He'd mention it to John and then where would we be?

"Your behaviour suggests otherwise."

I bit my cheek to keep me from saying something I would regret. I met his eyes and allowed myself a small smirk meant to bait him. He considered this a game and I wasn't about to let him wipe the floor with me.

"Maybe you're looking for the things you wish to see," I said, partially quoting his thoughts.

Again his blue eyes narrowed but he dismissed it as social happenstance. That surprised me, given that he placed little stock in crime scene coincidences.

"Do you believe in chance?"

"I fail to see how that's relevant."

"Everything is relevant if you look hard enough," I said gently.

He was silent for a moment, trying to fathom where I could be heading. Again he pondered my 'mismatched reactions.'

I lowered my cup and set it on the table in front of me. "Sherlock, if this was a murder investigation, you'd be dancing around Scotland Yard berating Lestrade and Anderson for accepting theories that accounted for some, but not all, of the facts. Correct?" My mistake had been deliberate.

His spine went straight as he sat up carefully. He searched my face, looking for some undisclosed indicator. He'd figure out the truth soon enough - that was about as inevitable as the sun rising in the east. Whether he accepted it or not, was an entirely different matter.

"You've never met Anderson."

I could practically see his nostrils flare with the imaginary scent. If we'd have been playing the hot/cold game, I would have been forced to call 'warm.'

"No. But you have, as has John."

We were getting closer to what my mother would call the 'crux of the matter.' He propped his elbows on the table and interlocked his fingers, carefully resting his chin upon them. Thoughts began to fly around his head at a dizzying speed.

My heart rate picked up; was he about to figure it out? Suddenly they fell still, grinding to a boisterous halt that only I could hear. I recognised the problem almost immediately. Pieces of my puzzle were still missing and Sherlock couldn't bring himself to make the supernatural leap to the supernatural conclusion.

"You had a point?" He asked impatiently. He knew he was closing in, but was finding the lack of coherent evidence infuriating. He bristled like a restless thoroughbred.

"My point," I repeated, "is that you are quite plainly choosing to ignore the facts simply because they don't fit in with your idea of the universe."

He sank further into his chair, stretching his legs out from underneath the table. It didn't matter that he was blocking the aisle; the shop was barely filled, owing to my late lunch hour.

"You can't decide if you want me to figure it out or not, can you?"

The question was rhetorical and more than a little bit true. Part of me wanted to have him leave it alone, but another, perhaps larger part wanted to observe him while he puzzled it out. What other explanation was there for me prompting and guiding him? Logically, I knew that I should get up and walk out right now before I got dragged into yet another homicide.

But we all know the likelihood of that happening.

I likened it to that pivotal childhood moment of the fork in the toaster. Your parents tell you never to try to touch it with the fork. You know full well that you shouldn't but, try as you might, you can't imagine how it could possibly hurt you. At this point, electricity and conduction means nothing to you, and won't for several more years. The shiny utensil edges forward, almost making contact with the metal wire. That nagging, taunting 'what-if' lingers teasingly in the back of your mind.

You have to know.

I had to know.

I_n too deep Hannah, _I chanted silently but to no avail. _In too deep._

I reached for my sandwich box and tore the tab along the perforated lines in the cardboard. I pulled a half out and took a bite without noticing what it tasted of. My attention was too intently focused on the dark haired man sitting opposite me.

A young woman situated closer to the counter commanded Sherlock's awareness and I curiously reached out towards him to discover why. I was caught off guard at the way he considered her; there wasn't a long internal monologue similar to what almost always accompanied an appraisal of me. If asked, he could have explained it bit by bit, breaking it down, but he knew, with an instinct that could only be gained through decades of observation, her profession, medical history and social life in a single, discreet glance.

A dreadful chill raced down my spine; before that moment, I hadn't realized how innate the procedure was to him. The thought that Sherlock's terrifying intuition required little effort on his part was an unsettling one. Seen as I'd only ever heard him work in a situation where facts and evidence were obscured, or consider me, in which case my reactions were partially foreign to him, I couldn't have noticed it before. Now that I had, it was doing nothing to help the 'don't-become-fascinated' part of the plan.

Unfortunately, he noticed me noticing and I had to avoid his gaze hastily. I put down my sandwich, having suddenly lost my appetite.

"You're enthralled by me," he stated curiously.

I didn't deny it – it would have been lying and we would have both known otherwise.

"John is fascinated by what I do, but your interest seems to go beyond that. But why? What could possibly be so different?"

I took a sip of coffee to wet my all-too dry throat.

Okay. You caught me. That was a lame excuse for avoiding his eyes. I'll try harder next time.

"John is a witness to your," I cast about for a suitable word, "intellect. Perhaps I am more intrigued because to a certain extent, I understand it – I see what you see." I watched with bated breath, sure that the glaring clue would finally lead him to the answer.

Sherlock snorted loudly, shattering my illusions. "You flatter yourself Spencer. Granted you're not as vacant as Anderson, but you're simply not intelligent enough."

Ouch.

I ignored the snub. "You didn't let me finish," I said quietly. I proceeded slowly, allowing ample time for the words to sink in. I could hardly believe that I was doing this. "I see what you see because _you_ see it."

He raised his head as I spoke, considering my words, but ultimately dismissed the possibility. "So you're suggesting that you study me while I am observing a target and arrive at a conclusion because I have inadvertently pointed you there?" He laughed once, a short barking sound that conveyed whole volumes of scepticism. When he spoke, his tone was mocking. "Spencer, I am something of an expert in human behaviour. I can tell you, from many years of experience and observation, that no person thinks that way."

A fire ignited inside my chest. _Missing the point there Sherlock! _I screamed frustratedly within the safe confines of my head. He was close, so so close. For all I had baited and prompted, I found myself well and truly torn: would it be easier if he knew or not? The tension in my gut was unbearably tight.

This is why I hate game shows.

Except Catchphrase. I'm a sucker for Catchphrase.

My mind interpreted the stress strangely. Rather than fashioning it into coiled muscles ready for flight, the sensation evolved it into prickly irritation.

"No that's not remotely what I'm saying. And besides, you might analyse human behaviour and have the ability to apply it to one of your cases, but you can't quite comprehend it, can you?" I said in a low but intense voice. I'd dropped all pretence of delicacy. "For once, would you just listen without trying to dazzle me with your endless talents of deduction? I get it, you're clever. Consider me impressed; and duly so I'll admit, but just because your way of thinking might be logical and clever and brilliant, it doesn't necessarily mean it's the only correct way."

I struggled to find the right words to make him really pay attention, taking a deep breath to soothe my pounding heart. I didn't dare look at him for fear of his reaction nor did I slip into his mind. I hauled up every wall I had ever built and a few more to boot, determined to keep our thought paths separate.

Just this once, I wanted to be Hannah: the Girl with the Epiphany and not Hannah: the Telepath.

"The thing is Sherlock: you're not infallible. You're just so bloody sure of yourself that it makes it difficult to argue. I-" I froze suddenly, finally snapping back into reality. I was suddenly reminded of who I was speaking so heatedly to and my courage fled. What the hell was I doing here? I wanted to get up, grab my bag and escape.

But there was one teensy weensy problem: my legs wouldn't unlock.

Despite my inner panic, my gaze flickered to his of its own accord. I saw, much to my aggravation, that he'd remained as outwardly calm as ever throughout the duration of my low-pitched tirade. However, and perhaps I imagined this, his face appeared just a fraction less inexpressive. Was that a ghost of a smile I saw on his lips? By the time I went to look again, it was gone.

"I'm assuming that you're going somewhere with this."

I nodded. For all my frontline experience with human emotion, try as I might, I couldn't decipher his tone. But it was with a sinking stomach that I realised that it held the barest hint of laughter. Anger caused feeling to rush back into my legs and I stood up, managing to bang my knee on the low corner of the table. Like a proud fool, I refrained from rubbing it.

"What I am trying, and failing, to tell you to tell you, Sherlock, is that I can hear your thoughts. Every single one of them." I drained the last of my coffee before adding, "Make of that what you will."

And then I walked out.

Again.

...

I chucked the empty sandwich box in a passing bin and finished the last bite of the remaining crust. Although I was still angry, I knew better than to try to last until the end of my shift without something to eat. I deposited my belongings in the cloakroom and retrieved my cart with moments to spare. The management never took kindly to lateness, despite their own poor efforts at time keeping.

"You there!"

I jumped at the authoritative voice and glanced about. There was no one else in sight which meant that I was about to become the unlucky target. I turned warily to see the Hospitality Supervisor, Delia Thomas, marching purposefully towards me on stocking sheathed legs. She was painfully thin, with close cropped hair that was peppered through with gray. Her impressive height was made even more formidable by a long neck, where her infamous, tortoiseshell glasses hung from a gold chain. If she glared at you over the rims, you knew you were out of a job.

Baffled, I tried to fathom what I'd done wrong. My watch wasn't slow, was it? I automatically brushed down my uniform, half-terrified that she'd find some miniscule fault with my appearance.

She stopped a few paces short of me and looked down her powdered nose at the name tag pinned on the left side of my chest. "Miss Spencer." I stifled a flinch. The use of my surname rang too strongly of Sherlock. "Your assistance is required on the Club Floor. You're to prepare the Churchill Suite and be quick about it. The chairman arrives in less than two hours."

I didn't bother asking which chairperson it was; I could see the answer in her mind as clearly as I could feel her distaste for me. "Yes ma'am," I squashed the childish urge to salute.

We weren't required to be so formal with the other senior members of staff, but with Thomas, such courtesy was mandatory.

"Has Anya retrieved the supplies?" Anya was the outspoken Irish maid who worked the sixth floor. I smiled; she was always good for a laugh.

Thomas' nose wrinkled as she placed the name. "Miss Farrell has been taken ill and it falls to you to complete her work." The way she pitched it made it sound like a quest vital to the welfare of the hotel. I almost snorted when I realised that was how she viewed it. The older woman gestured impatiently. "Everything is already up there. I'll have somebody complete your rooms."

I nodded and turned to go, already reviewing what had to be done.

Her odd, tinny voice called after me, "If you complete it in time, you may leave."

"Thank you ma'am."

She ushered me away and I walked briskly to the lift. Pressing the call button, I allowed myself a small pump-fist moment. The Churchill Suite, for all it was big, wouldn't require much vacuuming. I'd only have to pass the mop over the marble, dust the surfaces and refresh the glasses and other amenities. Two hours was more than enough.

The lift door opened right next to the suite and I wasted no time in getting started. All my thoughts about Sherlock and the cafe lost out to the pleasant sensation of being busy. On a whim, I switched the TV on and flicked through to the music channel, pleased to discover a rundown of Take That's greatest hits.

You can't beat a bit of Barlow.

I danced about the room, humming quietly to myself. By the end of the first hour, I'd managed to do everything but light the gas fire. I boogied back into the living area of the suite. The heavy, maroon drapes flapped gently in the breeze. I frowned. Hadn't I closed the window? Had I even opened it in the first place? I pulled them closed and stepped around the sofa towards the fireplace when I realized that something was off:

The fire was already lit.

An unannounced mind was steadily approaching, its presence betrayed by the whirr of its thoughts. I spun around to face it, torn between panic and fright. This time my fear wasn't unfounded; the suite was only accessible from the one door; a door I'd shut when I'd entered.

A man was standing there, clothed in cliché black. He wasn't overly tall but his muscles were thick and ropy, designed for heavy lifting work. Or for the streets. I dived instinctively into his mind, but what I found there made no sense, literally; he was thinking in another language. Going by his features I guessed Chinese, but I had no way of being certain.

"Can I help you sir?" I asked warily, feigning calmness that I most assuredly did not feel.

"Yes. You can." His English was good, but heavily accented. He began to translate some of his thoughts in preparation to speak, which cut me a little slack. It meant I had a bit of a head start; not much, but it would do. The man brought a dark shape out from behind his back and caressed it gently. A gun.

I swallowed; my tongue suddenly seemed thick, a dead weight inside my mouth.

"And how," my voice caught but somehow I managed to squeeze the words out, "might I assist you?"

He smiled coldly displaying surprisingly white teeth. They caught the firelight menacingly. My pulse pounded erratically; with such force that I imagined it was visible. "I need you to deliver a message."

"To whom?" I squeaked, shuffling backwards as furtively as I could manage. The distance between the sofa and the door seemed impassable, when in reality it was only a few feet. He saw what I was doing and brought the gun once again into view. I froze.

"I think you know him," he spoke amiably, as if we were exchanging news about a mutual friend. My heart was hammering away inside my chest. I knew the answer even before he could think it. "Sherlock Holmes."

I shook my head; I couldn't help it. Deception was my only way out.

The look of feigned warmth slipped from his face and a dark one replaced it. He moved in front of the window and I realized that that was how he'd gotten in. We might have been six floors up but unless he could walk through walls, scaling the building was the only way into this room. Eyeing his arms nervously, I didn't question that he had the strength.

"Do not lie to me. I saw you with him; on a...how do you Westerners call it...a 'date.'"

Shock loosened my tongue. "What? No!"

"I do not think that I believe you," he laughed threateningly. "You were leaning close; whispering lover's words no doubt."

I hadn't wanted to yell across the cafe so I'd closed the distance between us – that much was true - but Sherlock's date? He couldn't have watched us for long; even an eye untrained in deduction could've seen we were anything but.

"What has he ever done to you?"

"He destroyed our work. He broke our codes, our ranks. Killed Shan, our leader. The Tong are a proud gang and he humiliated us!" Passionate anger seized him and he brandished the gun. I cowered against the couch. "Sherlock Holmes must pay! What better way to anger him than kill his lover?"

Terror sank its icy jaws into me. "Please listen! I'm not-"

"Quiet!" He ordered. "The time for talking is over!" He reached carefully into his pocket and produced a small, delicate object. When he held it up to the light I could see what it was: a black lotus. Something flickered in the back of my horror-stricken mind. I'd seen a replica of that object, seen the picture taped above Baker Street's cheery green sofa.

"Will you take it?" He asked, his eyes glinting ominously. I shook my head mutely. "No? No matter. You shall grasp it in death." He lifted the gun but this time he didn't toy with the barrel. There was a clicking noise as something slid into place. Or out.

The safety.

If there had ever been a time for action, this was it. But there was no adrenaline; not a thing. If I'd have been less numb, I would have felt cheated. A frightened hand clutched at the armrest and I realized detachedly that it was slick with sweat.

_Run for God's sake, run! _I screamed. But nobody was home.

He smirked coldly at me, enjoying my terror. A single thought floated through his mind. Looking back, I still can't remember what it was. The sole detail that I can recall was that although it wasn't composed in English, I understood it perfectly. The only explanation for this oneness of mind stemmed from the fact that was that I was so firmly locked out of my own.

I snapped back into my own body with a jolt. With feeling born from that rude sensation, I spun, making a last, desperate bid for freedom as I sprinted towards the door. I sensed rather than heard a pulse, a wave of exhilaration roll off his brain and, on some wild instinct, I ducked automatically. As I did, I was only partially aware of an alien touch.

And that fraction of perception was enough.

The sensation was so forceful it was bewildering. Even when I felt a warm dampness spread across my back, I couldn't quite process or comprehend the feeling. It was only after I stumbled to the marble floor, feeling nothing but an odd pressure in the centre of my shoulder, that I heard the crack.

Of the disjoined seconds that followed I can only remember two things: The first was that the dark phantom slipped silently from the room, basking in the glory of the kill. And the second?

I was inexplicably and ridiculously glad that I wouldn't be getting blood on the carpet.

* * *

**A/N:** My only side note is that this guy, as you've probably gathered, is a straggler left alive after the events of the "Blind Banker." Forgive me for messing with canon but I'm hoping it'll add some depth to later relationships and keep Hannah on her toes!

I hope you all had a great Christmas and I wish you all the best New Year possible. May you achieve all you hope to and more; excel at what you love and even the things you don't.

Merry 2011!

**Shout-outs: **the honourable **Black1Han1d**, the glorious **Silvermoon of Forestclan**, the wonderful **littlelife**, the magnificent **SexyKnickers**, the first-class **daydreambuff**, the splendid **Genguice, **the great **adarnnya**, the marvellous **x-Pick'n'Mix-x**, the brilliant **sarahelizabeth1993**, the tremendous **kitsmits**, the amazing **The Wicked That Mourns Just**, the astounding **weezerz2490**, the awesome **sakura-chan2222**, the fantastic **Reivianna **and finally the sensational **RavenImperatrix**.


	7. Some Insane, Post Christmas Workout

**Weighing His Words**

**Chapter Seven:**

**"Not Some Insane, Post-Christmas Workout." **

Did I have to good fortune to wake up in hospital, stiff, sore and heavily medicated but otherwise stable?

No.

Instead I come to pressed pathetically to the floor, lying in an alarmingly crimson pool of blood. Well, when I say crimson, I just assume it was that colour. You'll forgive me the details, I hope. It was a struggle to breathe, much less comprehend the entirety of what had just occurred. Every nerve ending felt like it was cased in ice. Even my ragged breath felt alien to my oxygen-starved throat and lungs. I was sprawled on my front, one arm crushed beneath my body while the other was flung out to my right. If I'd intended to break my fall, I remember reflecting dryly through a hazy stupor, it hadn't worked very well.

I'm going to be a truthful protagonist and tell you that I didn't have an out-of-body experience; I reckon now that that's a load of bull made up because authors can't be faffed with the ins and outs of shock-induced panic. The reality is far less comforting, and a darn sight more petrifying.

I tried to turn my head but even that simple movement caused black spots to swim in my vision. Despite that I was slumped against the unforgiving marble, the pathetic light bored into my eyes. I squeezed them shut; they were heavy anyway. Strange patterns danced across my closed lids, leaving faintly glowing trails in their wake. I tried to follow them, to discover where they led, but the effort made the swirls fade all the faster. I was only partially aware of a numb ache spreading along the topside of my shoulder and creeping up into my neck; a fact, I realised belatedly, that I should probably be thankful for.

I sensed movement off to my left side; or was it my right? I tried to blink, to make my eyes focus, but weariness won out. I felt a sliver of anger and seized it, tethering myself loosely to the emotion; I wanted to see properly. Now! My traitorous eyes refused open and remain that way. During one of my brief moments of sight, I caught a glimpse of a dark shape; a human shape. In fact, if I tried, if I really pushed through the near opaque film, I could just count two...no...three. Four?

I gave up. The calculation was too difficult. I couldn't find the point in it.

I felt a pressure on my arm, and then my neck. It might have been higher, maybe lower; I didn't know. The contact was only brief and I was too busy chasing the amber lights inside my head to catalogue it properly.

If I could just reach them...I only wanted to...to...touch them.

But they were gone. I couldn't see them.

I panicked, trying to stretch out towards where they'd been just moments before. In the real world, my hand only jerked limply at my side.

Where had they gone?

There it was again. Contact; a foreign touch on my arm. Feelings flooded into me, but not the sensory kind – my nerves were too frozen for that. These emotions were somebody else's; pity, decisiveness; almost intangible, but undoubtedly there. Jealousy coursed through me - it wasn't fair! How come they were allowed to feel so much?

The harder I reached for awareness, the further the emotions danced from my grasp. I tried a second and third time. My efforts were fruitless. I was used to feeling so much. Where was it all? The non-sensation was both frustrating and terrifying. I shifted in alarm – or maybe I twitched? - sending dulled pain lancing down my unfeeling body. If I cried out, the sound was lost to my ears. An invasive weight settled on my wrist – a hand? – possibly meant to pacify me. The contact had the opposite effect.

Isolation drowned me as I struggled to keep my head above the oncoming tide. But there lay the root of my panic; there was no flood. The thoughts of others were beyond me and their emotions barely left a lasting impression. That was fine; I could handle that, but where were my own? I searched deep inside myself, disbanding my quest for the tantalising bronze trail.

Nothing. Not even numbness.

Dread seized, bound and choked me.

I couldn't hear anyone's thoughts; couldn't feel anything but the emotions of others. I panicked. I couldn't help it.

Who was I again?

_Hannah. You're...Hannah. _I could answer that one.

Where was I?

_Floor. _Something about the floor? Four? More?

Why couldn't I hear?

_Voices. _Speaking? Talking – to me?

_I'm here!_ How could they not see me?

_Colour. No colour._ Why couldn't I see?

Why couldn't I feel?

_Nothing. _Nothing.

Black.

...

Judging from the way I came around, I guessed that this wasn't my first attempt at consciousness. Slowly, after much cajoling, my eyelids fluttered open reluctantly - they mightn't have been panicked by the disorientation but I certainly was. My first impression was of unnaturally grey paint, a shade I imagined was probably white at one point. My second was that there was an oddly shaped crack in the warped plaster, directly above my head; upon further exploration, I would later discover it looked a bit like Darth Vader.

My hand felt strangely heavy at my side. When I tried to pick it up, I discovered why. An IV was buried deep in a vein, something that made me feel distinctly queasy. A thin, transparent tube ran from the plastic tap-thing into to a drip that hung from what looked like a surgical hat stand.

Clearly I'm awing you with my medical know-how.

I blinked in confusion, struggling to place the random recollections in any basic chronological order. I started with my clearest memory and worked my way forwards: lunch. Something about that particularly stood out, but I found myself unable to place what it was. I attempted to dismiss it, keen to plod logically onwards, but the elusive detail pulsed annoyingly in the back of my mind; it demanded attention. So what had been different? Again I scoured my befuddled brains but no clear answer was forthcoming.

It was surprisingly difficult to muscle my way through all the thoughts that were struggling about my skull. There were gaping holes in the fabric of my immediate universe and I didn't possess the energy, or will power, to fill in the gaps. Steadfastly refusing to return to listlessness, I clung to consciousness with all the tenacity of a disgruntled guinea pig. Still the oppression proved too much. I sagged into what felt like a mountain of bedding. Never one for the second pillow, the extra support was strange, but not unwelcome.

The collective buzz of the minds around me was muted but I felt a profound sense of relief at their presence. Quite why the relief was there, I couldn't tell you. I hadn't gotten that far.

Now that I wasn't fighting it, snippets of disjointed recollections came trickling back to me. I don't really know how long I lay there. The foggy inattentiveness didn't feel eternal but despite my disorientated grasp of reality, I could tell it was taking a stupid amount of time to coordinate my thoughts.

I'd never been the brightest Crayola in the packet.

After lunch, I would have gone back to work as normal. What then?

Tortoiseshell glasses – that was Thomas – and there was definitely something about the Churchill Suite. Next I remembered Gary – after all, no heterosexual female, fully conscious or not, could forget the Barlow. The memories flowed easier from there. An open window. A fireplace. Then suddenly, I remembered:

Some Chinese gang-hand lunatic had shot me.

The fingers of my left wandered warily up to my shoulder. The section that I could reach was dressed heavily in white gauze but since my range of movement was somewhat limited (and with jolly good reason) I couldn't investigate further. My right arm was strapped across my body, presumably to prevent me for jostling my hopefully-healing wound. Now that I was more coherent, I could feel a dull, throbbing ache beginning to spread slowly across the right side of my torso. My neck muscles felt both stiff and vaguely numb; like I'd just participated in some insane, post-Christmas work out session. I gathered that I probably didn't want to stick around after the medication wore off.

Then it hit me: I'd been shot for Sherlock. Sherlock!

If I could have buried my face in my hands, I would have done so. The best I could manage, however, was a half-hearted groan. My head felt fuzzy; a combination, I guessed, of sedatives and mental effort. The sheets rustled when I drooped further into the mattress. It wasn't an odd sound; not to someone who spent eight hours a day assembling such linens. Still, I missed the weight of my own, less restricting duvet.

I wondered lazily about how much time I'd lost floating around inside my own head. Hours? Days? I imagined the latter was more likely but I had no way of knowing. I looked around at my surroundings, noticing for the first time that I was on a ward and not in a private room. There were six beds in total; three beds spread evenly along each the length of the room, mirroring the arrangement opposite. Including mine, only four were occupied.

Although I was aware of the minds of my fellow patients, I found I was unable to "hone in" like usual. Despite the fact that I couldn't hear specific thoughts, the presence of the collective buzz, however muted it may have been, was soothing. I never ever wanted to revert to that terrible state of deafness. The inexplicable sense of loss had been both crippling and daunting; I'd come to rely on my little "sixth sense" more than I'd realised.

There was an irritating tightness in the muscles of my back, one that insisted on informing me that I'd been idle too long. I went to crick it but realized that the element of sluggishness lingered throughout my body. My movement alerted a nearby nurse to my consciousness and she came bustling over.

"Good t' see you back with us," she said with a concerned smile. "How's the pain? Are ya feeling anything yet?"

I swallowed, trying to wet my unbelievably dry mouth. I couldn't believe that I hadn't noticed the sheer degree of thirst before. "A little bit, yeah." I rasped. The tone of my voice was comical.

The greying brunette smiled kindly and removed her hands from her hips. "Well I think we can sort that out for you. And I'd imagine a little water wouldn't go amiss, eh?"

I nodded mutely. She disappeared behind my head as she went to fiddle with my drip. I had absolutely no clue what she intended to do back there but I was already anticipating the relief. The numbness bordered on a fierce, pulsing sting. Mind you, I'm not really sure why I was surprised - although it didn't feel like half my shoulder had been blown off, the bullet had definitely left a hole.

The nurse – Alana (I'd squinted at her nametag since my brain was still malfunctioning) – moved away in search of hydration. I turned my attention back to my environment. The ward was just your run-of-the-mill, city hospital and was furnished accordingly. To my left was a mint green, chair, the padding of which had been sunken by the behinds of many fretting relatives. Careful not to aggravate my wound, I turned my head stiffly to the opposite side. A lockable set of plywood drawers, topped by a neglected, fake sunflower occupied the other corner. The depressed bloom rivalled the chair in terms of cheeriness.

Just as I was contemplating peering curiously at my neighbours, Alana returned.

"Here you are darlin'," she said, handing me a filled, white plastic cup. "Now you be careful with yourself, d'ya hear? Slowly okay? Don't go straining yourself neither. You don't want t' undo all the surgeon's hard work now, do ya?"

I paused mid sip, alarmed. "Surgeon?"

"Of course. Nothing too major, mind you. Just checking nerve damage and such." She shot me a long look, gauging my reaction. "You were mighty lucky, Miss Spencer. If you'd ducked any later it might've hit the brachial and then where would ya be? A young thing like you permanently crippled? Don't think I haven't seen it happen mind." She was thoughtful for a moment but patted my hand. "But you? No, you'll be fine. Don't even need a skin graft. The doctor'll prescribe you something for a few months, t' take the edge off. There'll be a sling involved and likely physio."

My stomach sank. "What about work?" I asked warily.

"Now that I don't know," she shrugged, "you'll have t' speak t' Doctor Elliot."

"Not even a guess?" I pleaded. I couldn't afford to have time off. Alton Court, although it complied with the law, wasn't happy about it. By that I mean they conformed, but to the letter and no further; they'd made sure we were all well aware of that fact. If I was off too long, they'd find some farfetched excuse to give the job to somebody else. Housekeeping wasn't great and by God it was boring sometimes, but I'd take it over waitressing or childminding any day.

Alana pursed her lips but replied anyway.

"A month at best. You're looking at seven days in here; maybe five or six at a push. After that, the doctor'll strap you up proper and send ya home. If you're good, taking your meds and doing your exercises, ya might regain some use of it by the end of the fourth week."

"Four weeks?" I echoed, brightening a little bit. That didn't seem too bad.

She tried for a scowl but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I said at best, missy. I'd be more inclined to say six or seven before you even so much as thought about gettin' back t' work. We still don't know how much nerve damage 'as been done, so don't get your hopes up." Her tone suddenly softened, "A lot o' it depends on how you heal. Bullet wounds are always tricky things."

I nodded. I'd thought as much. "What about long term?"

"That I really don't know. Now, hush up and let me look at you."

...

I found out later that I'd not even lost a day. Now that mightn't seem like a lot, but to me, it felt like eons. I don't know if you've ever seriously lost track of time, be it to drugs or whatever, but I found it very unsettling. Logically I knew that nothing major would have transpired over the course of thirty-six hours, but it was just that awful feeling of time lost...

My capacity for telepathy didn't improve much either but, as I reminded myself periodically, at least I wasn't going without.

Inevitably, as with any substantial hospital stay, I had visitors. Not many, thank goodness, but enough to make me well aware of my greasy, bedraggled appearance. Unsurprisingly, my mother was the first.

Now I've never been able to read the minds of my family. I don't really know why but I reckon that it's probably just as well. Being inside the head of a stranger? Not so bad. Knowing the thoughts of a friend? That's not so great. But being able to read the minds of my relatives? That would be downright awful.

She just stood there, at the end of my bed, looking at me for what seemed like a very long time. I watched nervously as her lips thinned and began to send feverish hate mail to whatever entity had orchestrated this event. Before I could sign off with a "Sincerely, Hannah," she did something completely unexpected: she stepped towards me and burst into tears.

I resorted to patting her arm awkwardly with my good hand.

We'd never been close, my mother and I. It wasn't that she was disappointed with me as such; we just had different priorities in life. Whereas she had been a driven twenty-something intent on reaching the top of the corporate ladder, I'd resigned myself to trial and error when it came to unearthing the right job. This has always been an endless source of frustration for her and since she and my dad split up before she fell pregnant again, I've got no siblings to dilute the sting of my commonplace status.

The distance between us has never bothered me. Likewise, she's never been the touchy-feely, clingy type. I think I'm glad for that; I've never been one to want it. Besides, although neither of us would ever admit it aloud, we rather enjoy the verbal sparring. It's the only real chance I get to sharpen my cynicism - since I never seem to be able to work up the guts to exercise it in public.

Silently sarcastic – that's me.

That said, my sarcasm gland had been putting in a lot more hours of late. Sherlock had been good for that, if nothing else. See Exhibit A: "bullet through the shoulder" for further details.

It took me the better part of an hour (and a large wad of Kleenex) to convince her that my arm was in no danger of falling off. It was an even meaner feat to reassure her that foreign gang-hands weren't in fact out for my head.

"It's fine mum. Honest. The hole isn't even that big." I couldn't verify the truthfulness of that last statement since I hadn't actually seen it for myself. When Alana had come to redress it, I'd gulped once and looked the other way. Blood mightn't bother me under usual circumstances, but I wasn't much taken with the idea of ogling a freshly stitched wound. "I'll show you if you like," I offered cheerfully.

My mother shot me a reproachful look. The seriousness was marred a bit by her red rimmed eyes, but she got her point across. She always did.

"Don't jest young lady. You're incredibly fortunate."

I proceeded to zone out. I'd had plenty of time to consider that little fact and had happened across notions that didn't really bear thinking about. Besides, how many people had already told me that? How many would continue to do so in the coming weeks? I'd ducked; luck had nothing to do with it. While I knew as much, there wasn't really a useable explanation for my actions. I was simply going to have to get used to the hearing of it.

"...I still can't believe how long it took the police to tell me."

"Chill mum. They can only do so much at once. Plus they're kind of preoccupied with the rest of London. You're here now and I ain't going anywhere for at least a week." I smiled as I said it, despite the distracting throbbing.

Her eyebrows rose at my cheekiness but, for once, she let it pass. Instead she looked around at the uncluttered territory that was marked by the curtain track fixed to the ceiling. When she spoke, her tone was disapproving.

"I'm guessing your boyfriend hasn't been to see you yet? I can't see a card or anything."

I nearly choked on the water I was drinking. "What?" I spluttered painfully. I tried to multitask coughing and keeping myself as still as possible. Naturally, it didn't work.

"Really Hannah, you should make more of an effort to keep in touch. I'd like to at least be able to pretend to be a part of your life."

"Boyfriend?" I repeated. I was flabbergasted. I hadn't brought anyone home in months; hadn't even remotely mentioned anything about a date.

"What did he say his name was...Stephen? Stuart?"

Uh-oh. You don't think-?

"Sherlock?" I supplied warily, wincing before the words had even left my mouth.

Mum nodded as she recognised the name. "That was it. Quite charming actually; and good looking too," she added as if it were an afterthought. "Far nicer than that last one."

I'm sorry. Did I miss something? Sherlock, charming?

"I'm not dating Sherlock."

Why would he even bother with my mum? If the man was always trying to accomplish something, what could it possibly be this time? Suddenly I remembered the missing detail I'd been searching for earlier: the cafe.

I'd told him I was telepathic, hadn't I?

Crap.

I should've known he wouldn't have believed me; known that he wouldn't even contemplate it until he'd gathered his own evidence. And what better proof existed in Sherlock's eyes than the genetic kind? I shivered. The idea of the detective sniffing around my childhood home, sneaking samples of goodness-knows-what was especially disturbing.

Mother-dearest shot me a direct look that I recognised from my youth; the one that clearly said I wouldn't be able to pull the wool over her eyes.

"Mum, seriously, we're not seeing each other - I hardly know him!"

She snorted uncharacteristically and smoothed the covers absently. "Lying is unattractive Hannah. I don't know why you don't want to admit it, he's perfectly acceptable; I approve."

My mouth all but fell open. Never, in the history of dating, had a mother ever said anything a surprising. Not even close.

"You what?" I said, utterly stunned.

"I said I approve," she repeated. I didn't need my telepathy to figure that she reckoned I'd lost my wits; I knew her well enough to see that she couldn't understand why I found the information so surprising.

"I thought you did," I remarked disbelievingly. "I just...Mum, you didn't even like Richard."

She hadn't and she'd told him as much. Unsurprisingly, he hadn't called back. Her forehead wrinkled as she searched her memory. "The one with the crooked nose?" I nodded, too staggered to say anything more. "No, you're right; I didn't."

"You can't base a judgement of somebody based solely on the arrangement of their face! Besides, the guy was a high-flying architect, why the hell would you prefer Sherlock over him?"

"Language young lady," she chided. "Anyhow, if you two aren't dating each other, please explain how in the world he came to know so much about us? I might be old Hannah, but I'm not stupid. There were things we talked about that only you could have told him."

I sank further into my pillows out of frustration - of course there were! The infuriating man had probably concluded the location of my secondary school from the placement of the fern in the living room.

She eyeballed my dismayed face with some amusement. Clearly she thought she'd caught me out. She spoke smugly, "I was merely saying that he seemed like a nice man. You don't need to get so worked up about it."

I didn't have a clue as to how she could even tolerate Sherlock. He was obviously a stellar actor if he'd managed to convince my fastidious mother of our "relationship." One point was particularly troubling: he plainly knew more about me than I thought in order to invent such a believable lie.

"When was this?"

"Friday. Three o'clock maybe? It was before I'd heard what happened."

"It's Saturday, isn't it?" I was still having a hard time getting my head around all my lost hours.

Mum nodded. I studied her properly for the first time since she'd arrived. She looked tired and strangely old; worry, I realized. Despite our abnormal relationship, I'd always known that she loved me, but it was nice to have it confirmed all the same. I just wished I hadn't had to get shot to figure that out; my neck and shoulder muscles were beginning to protest again.

"Go home Mum," I said gently. "Grab something to eat that won't cost you a tenner and get some rest. I'll still be here in the morning."

"I can't just leave you," she protested.

"Sure you can. We go for days on end without communicating, I'm sure I can manage," I said with a small smile.

It was a long while before she actually left, but I was secretly glad for the company. My lack of telepathy had left me feeling uncomfortably hollow but thankfully my awareness was improving all the time.

I tell you, I've never been so glad to hear delusional thoughts about curry.

When I glanced at the clock, I was surprised to see it had gone ten. Then again, my sense of time was still as hopelessly skewed as it'd been when I'd woken up. A bone-deep weariness had settled over me, regardless of the fact that I'd hardly so much as moved all day. I was shifting my weight, trying to get comfortable with the notion of sleeping on my back, when I noticed something. My eyelids, so intent on closing but a moment ago, opened with renewed interest.

There was a creamy envelope propped nonchalantly against my miserable, dust covered sunflower. On the front, a single word had been in composed in flowing, cursive script:

_Hannah._

With difficulty, I outstretched my hand and picked it up, tilting it back and forth in the low light. The package itself wasn't heavy but the paper was. The texture alone spoke volumes of its expense; this was no two pound Hallmark. The navy ink contrasted starkly with the pristine stationery. I didn't recognise the handwriting; I would have remembered seeing beautiful lettering like that.

My brow furrowed as I turned it over, sliding my thumb under the sealed flap. Puzzled and more than a little bit intrigued, I tore slowly so as not to wake my neighbours or alert the nurses. A folded letter, made of the same, thick paper as the envelope, had been slotted carefully inside. I opened it carefully, cautiously. Each unfurling seemed agonisingly slow, yet I couldn't urge myself to work faster. What I found inside, however, did nothing to alleviate my confusion:

Taped to the creamy inside were several small shapes.

Six pips, to be precise.

* * *

**A/N: **So it's been a month, has it? Whoops. Most of my efforts have been dedicated to not failing my science exams, but I'm not convinced that they've been entirely successful!

The sentence structure of this one is weird; more short and choppy than usual. Partly to do with the fact that Hannah isn't her usual descriptive/dry self (for obvious reasons) and I didn't think it'd make sense to spout flowery prose. *ehem*

That said, I am thoroughly sick, sick, sick of looking at this chapter!

Shout outs: **Black1Han1d**, **Susan**, **daydreambuff**, **Genguice**, **Silvermoon of Forestclan**, **SexyKnickers**, **Vilentiel**, **Faye317**, **adarnnya**, **KimTheKat**, **Jula**, **kitsmits**, **KristenThelia**, **sarahelizabeth1993**, **SensiblyScrewy**, **Miss Write Away**, **Spinning Gypsy**, **Queen of Heartless**, **sakura-chan2222**, **The Wicked That Mourns Just** and **Leonessa Ivanovna**


	8. That Notorious Door

**Weighing His Words**

**Chapter Eight:**

**"That Notorious Door."**

"Damn it!" I flung the unruly tin of baked beans across the counter in a fit of hunger driven despair. The infuriating object clunked cheerfully against the kettle, at least thirty centimetres from where I'd intended it to end up. This terrible aim was on account of my usually right-handed person being cruelly forced to make use of her left and only her left. The cursed item proceeded to mock me with its brightly coloured label, one that promised a 'delicious new recipe.'

"Well how should I know?" I muttered audibly to nothing and no one in particular. "Can I actually open it? No."

This, I am ashamed to say, had been me for the past four weeks: useless, irritable and more than a tad insane.

I'd been a good invalid, doing my exercises religiously and keeping the shoulder support on. Admittedly, I'd cracked and gone whingeing to John after spending all of a week with the painful, awkward sling the hospital had provided me with. Thankfully, the good doctor had set me up with this elastic sleeve thing that stopped me rotating my shoulder (which apparently, was a big no no) without cutting off my circulation. Because that, for obvious reasons, would be bad.

I'd also taken my meds when I was supposed to but that hardly counted since I needed the relief by the time the next dosage was due. When the stitches were removed, I'd been expressly forbidden to lift anything heavier than a pencil with my right hand. Now I doubt you've ever experienced the impulse to weigh a HB before but I quickly figured out that things don't come much lighter than that. The sheer length of the list of activities I couldn't do was unbelievable and while it was true I was healing well, it did nothing to change the fact that I couldn't so much as open a simple, ring-pull can without assistance.

Hence why I'd been living on bowls of cereal and ham sandwiches for over a month. Only minus the butter on the latter - I couldn't work the knife.

My eyes strayed to the line of "Get Well" cards that stood stoically on the kitchen windowsill. There weren't many but I'd received enough to make me feel sufficiently appreciated. There was a pre-printed "regards" from work, emblazoned with the oh-so visually-stunning vista of the main reception. When I'd opened it, I couldn't help but interpret the silent motive behind the gesture; doubtless management wanted me to be aware of the "generosity" in their giving me the time off.

One man's gift, another man's law – but hey, I'm just housekeeping.

There was of course, one from my mother. Our parent-child bonding session in the hospital seemed to have stayed in the hospital, but in all fairness, she'd been gentler with me than usual. Apart from that, I'd gotten a few from old, half-remembered friends and semi-absent relatives. One card in particular, from my ninety-something, great aunt, had made me smirk but I'll not relay the joke. Despite having lived through the Blitz, Nana York had always been especially good for a laugh.

John, bless his heart, had also gone to the trouble of sending me one. The distinctive scrawl, found on the prescription pads of many a doctor, gently reminded me that if I needed anything from Tesco, I should just send him a text. So far I hadn't taken him up on his offer; only because I wished to spare him the extra hassle. I'd figured he had enough on his plate running around after Sherlock all hours of the day.

Predictably, the Consulting Detective hadn't penned his own "best wishes," but then I guessed the universe could only handle so many imbalances.

A flurry of freshness drifted stealthily through the open gap between the pane and the glass. Having been cooped up for the better part of four weeks, the air in my otherwise average-sized flat had long since become stifling. Undeterred by the incident that had begun with an open window and ended with a slug careening towards me, it had become of habit of mine to encourage some form of ventilation. The optimistic puff had knocked over one of the smaller cards on its way in, and I peered at the message before replacing it. Although Lucy hadn't sent it, she'd delivered it.

...

"Hannah?" The voice was femininely soft but familiar.

I looked up from the atrocious magazine supplement I'd been reading to see Lucy standing at the foot of my hospital bed. I cracked a smile, finally pleased to see someone who wasn't intent on poking me with uncomfortably cold medical equipment.

"Heya. You alright?"

She nodded and came closer, the modest heels of her work shoes clicking against the not-quite concrete flooring. "Shouldn't I be asking you that question?"

I closed the mag on Paris Hilton's face and tossed it clumsily onto the drawers. I cautiously reshuffled my pillows and slid my bum further up mattress so I could talk properly. "You could, but you probably don't want to hear the answer," I said with a grin, smoothing my sheets.

"Then how are you Hannah?" She asked, rolling her eyes playfully.

"Me? I'm great. There's a hole in my shoulder but it's all stitched up so there's nothing to worry about."

She raised her eyebrows at my jest, shooting me a wizened look that was mixed with sympathy. "You say that now, you wait a couple of days. When you're bored out of your skull, I guarantee it won't be so funny."

"Once again Harrison, you shall undoubtedly be proven correct," I sighed theatrically. "Pull up a chair. What can I do for you?"

Lucy uttered her thanks and sank into the sponged-filled cushion, dropping her carrier bags at her feet. "I figured you might need some company. Besides, I come bearing gifts."

I leaned forward with interest as she produced a soft leather purse. I felt my face light up. "You genius, you," I breathed. Ladies who have ever been separated from their handbags will know what I mean when I refer to the irrational relief that comes from being reunited with that crucial female lifeline. "Thank you!"

As I started pawing through my newly retuned possessions, she waggled a finger. "That's not all." she reached down once again and emerged with a smaller carrier bag that had the Boots logo stamped on the side. She looked suddenly shy as she passed it to me. "I thought you'd appreciate a decent tooth brush and toothpaste. I know when I had my appendix out, that's all I wanted."

I was touched by her careful thought and smiled gratefully, setting the bounty down next to my near empty glass of water. I was quietly ashamed that I'd ever doubted her friendship.

"Lucy, that's really sweet. And yes, I most certainly do appreciate it – thanks! How much do I owe you?" I was very conscious of our barely above minimum wage. I knew she was saving hard for her wedding; she had been for months.

She waved a dismissive hand, her simple but classy engagement ring sparkling elegantly in the artificial light. "Don't be silly, it didn't even come to a fiver." When I frowned, she looked at me with a faux serious expression, "It was a present Hannah, so just you hush up."

"But still. Is there not anything that needs doing? I could sort out seating plans for the reception," I offered hopefully. I was sick to death of rereading duplicated horoscopes. "I could address envelopes or-"

"Yeah, 'cause that'd work well," she snorted, nodding toward my bandage sheathed right arm.

Ah - yeah, that might turn out to be a problem.

"C'mon, throw me a bone here Lucy," I pleaded pathetically.

She watched me with amused twinkle in her eyes and tucked her fringe behind her ears. "I'll not promise anything but I'll see what I can do."

I nodded gratefully, marginally placated. We were both silent for a moment.

She hesitated and when she finally spoke, the words flowed uneasily. "I can't stop seeing it, you know; you on the floor." She bit her lip, "I don't know if you know, but it was me who found you."

"I didn't." When the police had come to interview me, they hadn't mentioned anything like that -they'd mainly been concerned with wringing a statement from me.

She caught my gaze and held it. "There was so much blood and...you were so still. And the fact the door was locked? You had me terrified for you," she shuddered. "I know we're not close, close friends or anything but I'm serious, if you need help getting back on your feet, I'm more than willing to lend a hand."

"Thank you." My voice was quiet, muted almost, with the realisation that I had a bloody great friend on-side.

"I mean it," she said fiercely. "I know you don't like drawing attention to yourself but this is different."

I didn't know how to reply, so I nodded, knowing that my eyes would convey my gratitude. "It must have been awful for you."

She laughed at that. "For me? Nah. Scary maybe but not awful. I was so panicked I could barely remember the number for 999."

"Well, in all honesty, I'm kinda glad you did," I said through a chuckle. "So how's Andrew anyway? I haven't seen him since before Christmas. Still at Vauxhall Cross?"

Lucy's face grew more animated at the mention of her fiancée. Somehow her silent affection for him managed to penetrate the medication induced fog. It made me smile; her contentment was a balm to my dulled, battered telepathic senses.

"Work's running him ragged as usual. Truth be told, I don't know what he does all day – Civil Servant, government business. I know that much." Concern was etched across her features and her lips were too tight for her happy exterior to be completely authentic.

"You worried about him?" I asked gently.

"I dunno. Westie's tough but there's only so much one man can take, right?"

"Absolutely."

"He's always on call nowadays. Says it only for a while though; just 'til the plans get sorted." She had a faraway look about her. As I was about to speak, she shook herself, looking embarrassed. "You've got enough problems Hannah, don't worry about me."

"Hey, it's cool. Sometimes we just need to talk things out with somebody. Besides, it's not like I can run anywhere anyway." I caught myself before I could shrug.

Lucy glanced down at her watch and groaned when she saw the time. "I'd better be going if I want t' whizz past Blockbuster before work," she looked apologetically at me. "Did you want me to bring you anything?"

"Nah, I have a toothbrush – what more could I need?" I asked teasingly. "Are you gonna make him watch a chick-flick?"

She grinned in response, "Oh, most definitely. It's payback for making me sit through that God-awful Kung-Fu movie last weekend."

"You have fun with that. Make sure you pick a really soppy one."

"I've got a few ideas." She tapped her nose seriously before gathering up her things and standing up. "Before I forget, Matt gave me this to pass on to you." She handed me a small rectangle that was almost certainly a card. "I suggested that you wouldn't want him hanging around while you were feeling under the weather, but I think he's still keen to catch up with you. He said to tell you he hasn't forgotten about the date, if you're still up for it; in a few weeks, of course."

I nodded. I'd all but forgotten about it but since I was chomping at the bit to get out of the hospital, I supposed I would indeed appreciate the escape later on.

I hadn't realized how right I'd be.

...

Drawing in a deep breath, I retrieved the tin of beans and replaced it ruefully in the cupboard. I grabbed a clean bowl and a box of cereal, separately of course, shaking the packaging awkwardly until I'd emptied out enough Special K to pass as breakfast. So much for changing it up. My slippers slapped pleasantly against the laminate-wood flooring and when I reached the sofa, I folded myself carefully into the cream cushions.

Balancing my bowl on the armrest, I reached for the remote with my good hand. I glanced at the wall clock while waiting patiently for the dated, much-pressed buttons to respond. The numbers had worn off years ago but like any regular human being living in the technologically privileged side of the world, I had all the digits and functions committed to memory. Finally, the TV hummed to life and I plodded gradually through the limited selection of terrestrial channels, eventually settling on BBC News. After flicking the volume up a few green bars, I scooped a pile of the light coloured flakes onto my spoon and brought it gracelessly to my mouth. The newsreader's sombre voice floated through the flat.

"There has been a massive explosion in central London." I glanced up to read the red and grey, scrolling text bar that I knew would give me more information and almost chocked on my cereals.

_House destroyed in Baker Street._

"What?"

I struggled to right my breathing. I set my cereals down and sat very still, my eyes wide, digesting the information with what was probably amusing slowness. Baker Street was where Sherlock lived and it was mightily suspicious that there just so happened to be a violent "gas leak" along that very same avenue. If the gang member had shot me because I'd been seen with his adversary, what the hell would he do to Sherlock – or worse John – both of whom were actively involved in thwarting criminal activity? If the detective had gone and gotten himself mixed up in something that'd hurt the doctor, so help me, I'd kill him.

If they weren't already dead.

My anger melted into pressing anxiousness. Springing up from my seat, I grabbed my phone from the side, tapping my thumb impatiently against the smudged screen as it started up. His number was attached to the text he'd sent me the first time we'd met; I was going to ring him, I decided, whether I had a clue what to say or not. The jolly, blue welcome message that nobody ever pays attention to seemed to take an age to pass. When I finally got through to my inbox, my plans of reassurance were foiled. I'd deleted the message. I scrolled vainly up and down the list but of course it was gone; a text like that, who wouldn't erase it?

After staring stupidly at the mobile for a few heartbeats, I dropped it into the front pocket of my jeans, glad that I'd bothered to get dressed that morning. I pulled my coat on gingerly and shoved my feet into trainers. Grabbing my keys, I hurried out the front door, closing it forcefully behind me in my haste. Dozens of bleak possibilities established themselves among my thoughts, wreaking sadistic havoc with my already frayed nerves.

...

I'd struggled my way out of my taxi, slamming the door after thrusting my fare at the cabbie. Predicting that the road would be closed around the site, I'd stopped him a few streets early and walked the rest of the way. Well, jogged would be more accurate. I don't know what I expected to see when I rounded the corner but the rubble, fire engines and official looking personnel did plenty to describe the situation.

Even as far as I was from the police cordon, brick peppered glass crunched under my rubber gripped soles. My attention was immediately drawn to the gaping hole in the building's facade and I gulped when realized I could see its internal skeleton. By no means was I an expert, but I wasn't wholly convinced that a simple, unfortunate gas leak could cause destruction that widespread.

I slipped past the barriers meant to hold back the public and made a beeline for 221B. Holding my right arm protectively at my side, I'd almost made it to that fast-becoming notorious door when an officer shouted for me to halt.

"I live here!" I yelled over my shoulder, my concern making me bold. I pushed on without waiting for an answer. While the statement wasn't true in the slightest, it certainly seemed that way sometimes. The neglected wood swung open under my tough; its stability having nothing to do with the massive explosion from across the street. Hurrying up the stairs, I left myself no time to hesitate and was mildly relieved when the identifiable buzz of the residents of the flat brushed the edges of my consciousness.

Well, John's brushed. Sherlock's was more like an assault, but I believe I've previously illustrated this point.

The presence of another mind almost gave me pause, but I'd already committed myself to speech by the time I'd catalogued it properly.

"John? Sherlock?" I skidded to a halt just outside the living room, taking in the shards of glass, dispersed paperwork and upturned furniture. Truth be told, it was only marginally messier than the last time I'd been in there. "Christ, are you okay? It's all over the news."

Sherlock sighed, his irritation evident; he'd established this fact with John only a few minutes earlier.

"Yes. Completely fine Spencer. Why wouldn't I be?"

I shot him an incredulous look. I'd thought that even Sherlock would've had a hard time being blasé about a freaking bomb. "You almost got blown up for goodness' sake!"

"Oh yes. That." He fingered the strings of his violin carefully, the long, pale digits tracing a tune that only he could place.

I turned to John, who was perched on the coffee table looking more haggard than usual. "You're alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just got here," he nodded. He'd been at Sarah's when he'd heard what had happened, I saw it in his mind; he'd lost his patience and walked out the night before. Good for him. Although I had to hand it to the guy; he'd already endured far more than I could ever hope to.

"How's the arm Miss Spencer? Bullet wound, wasn't it?" Mycroft's voice carried from the armchair nearest me.

My spine stiffened at been addressed directly. "Yeah, it was," I turned to the elder Holmes sibling, unconsciously bringing my free hand to my arm. "But you already knew that."

Mycroft simply smiled his unnerving smile and its effect was increased due to the mental blind spot. I found it interesting that Mycroft's muteness (and yes, I see the irony) didn't cancel out his brother's contrasting over-projection. I decided not to dwell on it.

"I'll admit I looked into the matter. Briefly, of course." The carefully moderated voice had the same effect as the last time, causing an element of caution to creep into my posture. "However I'm surprised that my brother chose not to pursue it."

Sherlock snorted loudly without looking up, apparently not-so engrossed in his composing. "Why should I have done? There was no case to begin with."

"The police have no leads," I explained lightly. It was a touchy subject for me. "I thought you liked that sort of thing."

"Stimulating mysteries, yes; garden variety crime is a gross waste of my time and intellect." The detective pinned me with a scathing look and I shrank back. His tone brought with it an image of him looking boredly at his nails.

I shut my mouth, unsure how to respond to his indifference. At the same time, I silently chastised myself. What had I honestly expected? That he would leap to my aid? Sherlock wasn't like that - I already knew as much from our previous encounters and my unnatural insight. I almost scoffed aloud. My ego had fluctuated considerably of late. Nevertheless, I didn't quite know why I kept expecting him to surprise me.

I studied him – inconspicuously, mind you - remembering that he'd seen fit to locate and question my mother in my childhood home. If he'd found any evidence to prove or disprove what he saw as my "claim to telepathy", he didn't let on as to his resolution. Again I marvelled at his ability to focus his mind so wholly on or around something; there wasn't even a flicker of consideration regarding my supposed abilities in his thoughts, only contempt for my interruption.

"You were all over the Tong a month ago," John pointed out helpfully from the sidelines. He received a similar, icy stare but held his ground admirably.

"Yes, John. A whole gang. Not a petty, overambitious straggler."

"I'd hardly call a bullet through Hannah's shoulder a trifle." I glanced sideways at John to show my appreciation. He dipped his head in discreet acknowledgement.

"It was an insignificant occurrence. Surely even you can see that."

"In case you've forgotten Sherlock, it was a message. To you," John rolled his eyes while emphasising the last part.

"The man was on a plane before she was even conscious. He's no longer a threat. As I've said before: insignificant." The detective didn't shrug; of course he was above such mundane gestures.

Since the two-fold condescension was difficult to accept gracefully, I did my best to ignore his thought process. I can't really say it worked very well. I turned to Mycroft, unable to help but defer to the older man; in person he had quite a regal bearing about him. "Can I go?"

"I'd rather you didn't."

Puzzled, I stayed put. I could understand that he wanted me to stay, but why and to what end was a mystery. He stood, picking up a light brown file which he extended to Sherlock. He didn't budge. The two stared each other down, reams and reams of private history and decades old sibling rivalry filling the short space between them. John observed the tension with an amused look while I glanced at my feet. Despite the doctor's presence, I felt intrusive and out of place.

When Sherlock made no move to take it, Mycroft crossed the room and handed it to John.

"Andrew West, known as 'Westie' to his friends. Civil Servant. Found dead on the tracks at Battersea station this morning with his head smashed in."

I lifted my head, startled. "Westie?" I demanded.

Only John looked surprised. The Holmes brothers watched indifferently, both were noting my reaction with frighteningly similar expressions. I wondered offhandedly if they realized it.

"Why? You know him?"

"Yeah, I do." I took a few moments to process the information. "He's my friend's fiancé. Was, I guess." While I felt nothing more than a vague sadness and pity for the man I'd met only a couple of times, I knew that Lucy was going to be inconsolable; understandably so - she was meant to have married him in two months time, bless her heart. "Does she know?"

"The family has been informed." The words were something I'd only ever heard on the radio. They were so much colder in person, almost heartless.

John stirred. "Jumped in front of a train?"

"That would seem the logical assumption."

I'd known Andrew had had debts but they'd never seemed to weigh too heavily on his mind and I still wasn't convinced they had. If he'd been suicidal (and he'd shown no hints of such notions the last time I'd seen him) he would've broken off the engagement, I was sure of it. He hadn't struck me as a selfish man and had quite clearly loved his soon-to-be bride.

I remained silent regardless of my inner objection. John was only seconds away from raising the point anyway. Sherlock too was quiet, but I could hear him beginning to put the scenario together in his head; arranging the puzzle while taking into account Mycroft's being there. In his mind, it added significance to the occurrence, something he masked. To the ordinary, outside viewer however, he was unconcerned by his brother's presence.

Just the way Sherlock liked it.

"But?" John pressed.

"But?"

"Well, you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident."

Sherlock made an approving noise. He shared John's line of thought, only he'd reached the same conclusion minutes earlier. Mycroft thinned his lips and paused.

Since I couldn't read him properly, I mistook it as hesitation. "If you don't want to tell me about it, I can go?" The offer took the form of a question. Again I'd automatically yielded to his authority. I could have kicked myself.

"If that's what you wish, Miss Spencer. However, you might find the case to your advantage," he cast an eye over me, lingering longest on the arm I was holding awkwardly. "Doubtless you could use the financial boost."

I tried and failed to be insulted. He was annoyingly correct. To be honest, I wasn't sure that I really wanted to get involved again; especially considering how I'd ended up at the end of my last misadventure. But I couldn't help feeling I owed it to Lucy to investigate.

"The MoD is working on a new missile defence system, the Bruce-Partington program, it's called," he said, leaning on his umbrella. Why he needed the aforementioned item on a perfectly sunny day was beyond me, but like everything the Holmes' seemed to do, I guessed it was for dramatic effect. "The plans for it were on a memory stick."

"That wasn't very clever," John chuckled.

Sherlock, who was cleaning the bow of his violin, allowed himself a small smile. I too had to admit that it was a pretty stupid mode of storing classified information.

"It's not the only copy," he said with a touch of gentlemanly indigence, "But it is secret."

The film shifted, allowing me one of those rare moments inside Mycroft's mind. My mouth fell open. "Wait a minute. You think Andrew stole them?" I asked incredulously.

"The evidence is rather condemning." I tried to speak but he overrode me in true Holmesian style. "We can't possibly risk them falling into the wrong hands. You've got to find those plans Sherlock." He turned sharply, fixing his brother with a hard look, "Don't make me order you."

Whereas I would have jumped to and started searching then and there, Sherlock was unfazed.

"I'd like to see you try," he said simply, tucking his violin under his chin and readying his bow.

Mycroft's stare simultaneously managed to temper and grow flintier, a talent I wished I possessed. "Think it over." He looked at me with a strange expression; one that I couldn't decipher. "Who knows, Miss Spencer, perhaps on this occasion your 'abilities' will have merit." He crossed the room, offering his hand in turn to both of us. "Goodbye John, Hannah. See you very soon."

With that he glided out of the room, leaving the doctor and me with troubled thoughts and a brooding detective.

As I have already surmised, the two things are rarely a great combination.

* * *

**A/N: **And so we enter established canon; a dangerous place, and one that I'm mildly apprehensive to approach. I suppose now would be a good point to reassert that anything you recognise from either the series or popular culture, is not mine – be it words or people. Everything else, however, is my brain child and one that I intend to take places.

For the duration of the production of this chapter, I declared myself a method writer – with predictably hilarious results. It is, I assure you, very difficult to open a tin with your weak hand!

As always, if you spot anything amiss, let me know. Con-crit is warmly welcomed and much appreciated. If you have the leisure, post me a little note: what you don't like, what you do. You know the drill.

Shout-outs: **DarknessDrought**, **SensiblyScrewy**, **Silvermoon of Forestclan**, **Genguice**, **Noelle M**, **.Troublesome**, **V EPSILON**, **sakura-chan2222**, **kitsmits**, **Alys5**, **Miss Write Away**, **SexyKnickers**, **adarnnya**, **sarahelizabeth1993** and **bgm76**

Here's wishing all my readers a happy (early) Valentine's Day!


	9. The Pink Elephant Theory

**Weighing His Words**

**Chapter Nine:**

"**The Pink Elephant Theory"**

It wasn't a squash in the back of the cab, not physically anyway. But being confined in what was essentially a small metal box and saddled with the contemptuous, lofty thoughts of one man and the quiet but resigned musings of another was enough to make anyone feel suffocated. Normally I had no trouble keeping precise reflections from my notice but that day, for whatever reason, I couldn't quite manage it. It was the pink elephant theory in action; the harder I tried to keep myself from perception, the more easily the answers flowed into my mind.

I sat opposite the two, keeping my gaze fixated on the window as London slid past me. Crowds of businessmen and women intermingled with gaggles of tourists and idle shoppers; humanity at work. Motorbikes weaved through the traffic, their leather glad riders seemingly determined to reach their destination at least ten minutes before the rest of us. Bored lorry drivers propped their chins in their hands while staring vacantly at the road ahead of them. Bizarrely, I felt a touch despondent. After all, there was all this life, flickering by, and it felt like nobody was taking the time to observe it.

Not even Sherlock.

It appeared that the detective and I were still at odds with one another, but like many things concerning the infuriating man, the occurrence was predictably one-sided. I wasn't completely blame-free, considering that I'd baited him on more than one occasion; however, I was more than willing to overlook this fact.

If there was one thing I'd learnt from being around Sherlock, it was that he could be unfathomably brilliant in some respects while blindly stubborn in others. As can we all, I suppose, but to a lesser degree. He wouldn't accept my ability; I could see that quite clearly now. His treasured science couldn't truly begin to explain the phenomenon and he didn't possess the desire to pursue it – such meddlings would have been contradictory to his logic. I guess I should've been surprised; at first glance he seemed to house the driving desire for the constant expansion of knowledge, but now I knew otherwise.

'All men, by nature, desire to know.' In Sherlock's case, Aristotle had been wrong. Wrong, but not far off the mark. It seemed to me that what this particular man required was situations in which to prove his brilliance. Sherlock didn't want to simply know; he wanted to apply and thrive from the returns of such application. His rationale was frighteningly accurate, intricate and, with some notable limitations, exceedingly perceptive. Despite the off-putting, sociopathic exterior, he was a rare find in a world of noise and exaggeration for personal gain. Sure he was prone to long periods of animation but those were almost always succeeded by fits of silence. It struck me that it wasn't so much what he said that made him unique, it was more what he didn't; what he saw.

I didn't deny it then and have no intentions of doing so now: Sherlock Holmes possesses a beautiful mind.

"Hannah?" John's soft voice snapped me out of my philosophical reverie. I blinked, registering the deceleration of the taxi. "You alright? You seem a bit...preoccupied."

I gave him a smile, feeling Sherlock's keen, calculating eyes on me. "It's nothing. Don't worry about it."

"Aren't you due some tablets yet?" The doctor frowned, ever concerned.

I glanced at my watch, doing some quick mental math. "Um, about fifteen minutes ago," I replied sheepishly. The lines on his face deepened. I hurried to reassure him. "It's not so difficult to last without them anymore."

"Hannah," he said reproachfully. "That's beside the point. You should've said something."

I chuckled."And to what end? You would've been late getting to see Lestrade. It's not a big deal, honest."

"Is it bothering you?"

"Nope," I shook my head.

Sherlock stirred, relaxing his grip on the yellow handrail. "She's lying."

"Yes, thank you Sherlock," I said lightly, turning briefly to face him before looking away.

Nobody spoke further. The detective studied me while I feigned ignorance. John sighed heavily and shifted his attention the watermarked window, unwilling, for once, to get involved.

...

It turned out my gut had been right about the explosion not being a gas leak. I tactfully chose to note my victory in silence and hovered near the door, preferring to keep out of the way. Sherlock hadn't said why I was needed but neither had I asked. And who was I to question the genius? Our presence had drawn a disturbingly dark look from the curly haired woman – Donovan, someone's thoughts reminded me – but the animosity was directed at Sherlock more than at either of us mismatched sidekicks.

I was curious to know why she felt that way towards him and I'll admit being intrigued enough to hone in on her thoughts. Her mind was largely preoccupied with fond thoughts of a man named Anderson. I recognized the moniker from mine and Sherlock's conversation in the cafe. While the consulting detective wasn't her type – as many often assumed due to her forced, flippant attitude around him – it appeared that married was. Since it wasn't my place to comment, I repressed my disapproval and pushed the information aside. I could gather that Sherlock had done something to her but it was difficult to pinpoint what.

I almost snorted when the answer finally presented itself: he'd poured acid over the bonnet of her car; illustrating a point of course. But, like he so often did, he'd gotten carried away in the excitement of the case. Donovan hadn't understood Sherlock to begin with and after that little incident any prospect of civility had vanished in a puff of oxygen-rich corrosive.

My curiosity satisfied by the discovery, I refocused on the conversation.

"Hardly anything left of the place, except a strong box. A very strong box and inside it was this." The DI gestured to the small shape that had survived the blast. Something niggled at the back of my mind at the sight of the envelope but I couldn't place it.

"You haven't opened it?" Sherlock's interest was piqued.

"It's addressed to you isn't it?" By that Lestrade meant that nobody'd wanted the task of opening it; not until Sherlock had pitched up. I'd seen enough evidence to conclude he wouldn't be a happy bunny if his 'crime scene' had been compromised. The Yard's deferral to him was certainly amusing, made more so by that fact that he wasn't even on their pay role.

A sharp twang in the muscles of my neck made me wince. It was like this occasionally, where the onset of the pain was sudden. In the greater scheme of things, the discomfort wasn't too severe (and a darn side better than the alternative: dead) it was really only the numbness that infuriated me. I had a sort of nervous 'blind spot' where the bullet had entered my shoulder, one that covered about a squished, five centimetre radius around the exit wound. Nothing could be done surgically but various doctors, John included, suggested that it would take a good while for the nerves to repair themselves, if at all.

It had indeed struck home that John's bullet had struck him only a couple of inches lower on his left than mine had on my right. I'd never heard him complain, silently or verbally, of any trouble so I was keeping my fingers crossed that mine would heal in much the same way. For the moment however, I was too proud to admit that the ache was a little on the painful side of distracting. I lifted a discreet hand to massage it, being careful of the puckered scar tissue.

Sherlock's eyes flickered briefly towards me but he didn't pass comment. Thankfully, his attention was too focussed on the unsolved mystery before him. I'd previously noticed that crime was like catnip for him; while being exposed to too many cases didn't make him outwardly aggressive, he certainly hissed if we interrupted his trail of thought.

"We've x-rayed it. It's not booby trapped."

"How reassuring," was the dry reply. He picked up the envelope and held it under a desk lamp, turning it over in his hands.

John and Lestrade looked on with interest while I latched, all too eagerly, onto his deductions. Maybe I'd just gotten used to it but the volume wasn't quite as projected as usual.

_Thick paper_ – _not entirely handmade but some manual input is clearly present, evidenced by the fine colour variations. The texture also illustrates its expense. There's a faint chemical odour, one usually found in paper exported from areas of Eastern Europe. The light impression on the back, coupled with the distinctive fold of the envelope suggests methods similar to the factory at Velké Losiny_ _but lacks the identifying family watermark._

"Nice stationery," he remarked. "Bohemian."

"What?"

"From the Czech Republic. No fingerprints?"

"No."

The answer didn't surprise Sherlock so he dismissed the fact. He'd already seen enough to conclude that the dispatcher was far too wary to make such an amateur mistake.

_More important still is that they went out of their way to create an impression. Intention at this point, unclear – too little evidence is available to justify a viable conclusion._ He studied it again, narrowing his eyes at the ink. _Midnight Blue by Montblanc - quality ink, matches the paper; very little bleeding. Cursive has slight curving on the 'k' and letters are carefully formed and consistent, common attributes of female chirography. _

"She used a fountain pen. Parker Duofold, Meridian nib."

"She?" John raised his eyebrows.

"Obviously." His flatmate didn't even spare him a glance.

"Obviously," he repeated with a touch of sarcasm. _How stupid of you John, _he added silently. _Of course it's a woman. Why wouldn't it be a woman? _The doctor's face bore a long suffering expression and I shot him a sympathetic look, nudging him lightly in the ribs. He allowed me a small smile before turning back to his friend.

Sherlock picked up a knife, sliding it into the thick envelope, making small sawing movements with his leather-gloved hand. The funny scratching sound was amplified by the expectant hush of the room. Tiny scraps of paper floated off under the light, joining their invisible cousin, the dust particle, in the air. Sherlock studied the edge for a moment, satisfying himself that he'd been correct in his description of expense, before peering inside.

I was a bit disappointed, if I was honest.

"That's...that's the phone, the pink phone."

I glanced at John, surprised that he recognised it. Lestrade too appeared to remember it. Now I really felt out of the loop.

"What, from 'The Study in Pink?'"

Sherlock examined it properly, scrutinizing the bright casing and print-free screen. "Well, obviously it's not the same phone, but it's supposed to look like-," he trailed off, turning around with mild disbelief. "'Study in Pink,' you read his blog?"

"'Course I read his blog. We all do."

I almost asked what they were talking about but their combined thoughts filled me in soon enough: a chain of suicides, a very pink lady and a serial killer masquerading as a taxi driver. Good to know. I was also surprised that he had a blog. Despite that he could probably strip, reassemble and fire a gun with his eyes shut, he hadn't struck me as the most technologically able of men. I made a mental note to Google it that night, guessing that it would make some interesting reading material.

"Do you really not know that the Earth goes around the sun?" An aberrant grin broke out on Lestrade's face, something he tried and failed to hide.

Donovan snorted and strode out of the office with a haughty air. Sherlock watched her go with only the faintest derision, having decided that an insult directed at her was a waste of his intelligence.

But it kinda goes without saying he didn't.

"It isn't the same phone. This one's brand new. Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone, which means your blog," he emphasised the word, "Has a far wider readership." I stifled an eye roll. Trust Sherlock to make it John's fault. Sherlock tapped the screen and a familiar, electronic voice floated from the speakers.

"_You have one new message." _The recording was followed by five Greenwich Time pips; sounds that played into baffled silence.

"Was that it?" Apparently John and I were on the same page: a blank one.

"No, that's not it." There was a smaller ping that announced the receipt of another text this one containing a picture of a desolate room – a front room, judging by the presence of the fireplace. Part of the wallpaper had been ripped from the wall but clearly somebody had grown tired of the task and abandoned it. The floor was bare too, devoid of any carpet or laminate covering. I hadn't the foggiest as to what the picture meant, but Sherlock did.

"What the hell are we supposed to make of that?" Lestrade asked incredulously. "An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips."

"It's a warning."

All his thoughts were converging, piecing the fragments together too rapidly for me to track sequentially.

"A warning?"

Sherlock was so absorbed that when he spoke, he was continuing his thoughts rather than responding to John's question. "Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that – five pips."

I felt the blood drain from my face. I suddenly knew where I'd seen the writing before. And the stationery. I'd chucked my own envelope in the bin, believing it was some weird pagan luck thing sent by one of my eccentric aunts – Lord knew I had enough of those – and not given it a second thought. But what'd initially seemed innocent and unassuming at first had in fact been a serious caution.

I'd been threatened; threatened by somebody who possessed the means to detonate a bomb and the cunning to disguise it. If this truly was a warning, I found myself wondering, how would they arrange my death? Make it look like an accident? The thought sent a chill down my spine. In their eyes, I'd shown my hand by associating myself with Sherlock - because of course that was what this was really about; all it could possibly be about.

I had no way of knowing if the Black Lotus were involved, but it seemed unlikely; that particular branch of the organization was in tatters and Sherlock had been adamant that the man was already out of the country. There was a vicious, phantom ache in my shoulder.

I could've also deluded myself into thinking it was my telepathy that'd caught the attention of the bomber, but I think I knew, with gut affirmed certainty, that that wasn't the case. Mycroft (I reckoned) was sceptical; John only believed because I'd demonstrated for him and it seemed more likely that pigs would fly before Sherlock even grudgingly accepted the possibility. I'd covered my tracks at every turn, I was sure of it. If I was right in my conviction, it meant that I had the upper hand; a marginal one, but an advantage nonetheless.

I ceased to pay attention to the conversation after that. By the time I logged in to what was going on, and even then only partially, Sherlock was already out the door with John at his heels. I followed them unconsciously, my body on autopilot and my pain forgotten. In fact, I was so shocked that I was hardly aware I was moving. It was taking most of my energy to keep my knees from buckling.

All of a sudden, we were out on the street. The feel of the breeze on my face was relieving; so much so that I actually halted in my tracks. I unclenched my fists, realizing with a start that I'd closed them tightly. There were no crescent marks on my palms but my knuckles had turned white with the strain. I was stood a ways behind Sherlock and John; the former was trying to flag down a cab and a passing pedestrian had caught the attention of the latter. My mind was still reeling, half with disbelief, half with shock. I wasn't merely a spectator to this game anymore, I'd become an unnecessary obstacle; one that could quite easily be removed.

John's hand on my arm made me jump and he apologised hastily.

"It's okay," I said with a forced smile. "I was away with the fairies."

"Are you coming with us?"

I considered it for a moment but I didn't think I could handle anymore tension gracefully. "Thanks but no, I don't think I will actually. Anyhow, I'll just be in the way."

"I feel like that sometimes," John nodded, smiling as he did. "But you already know that don't you?" I returned it only a few seconds late. His happy look faded. "Seriously, what's wrong?"

I shook my head. "It's nothing. My shoulder's starting to complain a bit, that's all."

I'd decided not to mention my receipt of the pips, unwilling to invite further scrutiny from either Lestrade or Mycroft. Or Sherlock for that matter. I felt guilty for having to lie to John but it wasn't really that far from the truth; my muscles were actually complaining a bit.

"Lestrade'll meet us there," Sherlock called in our direction. "Come on John."

A black taxi pulled up to the curb and he opened the door for his friend, ushering him inside. Once he'd slid along, Sherlock turned to me. He watched me for the briefest moment before reaching inside his coat and tossing something to me. I caught it clumsily, looking down to see a white tray of pills. I identified them as the ones he'd swiped off Donovan's desk earlier. Nobody else had noticed but me. I glanced up from the label, surprised on two accounts. One: that they were the same kind and two: he knew what I'd been prescribed. When I opened my mouth to give my thanks, he headed me off coolly.

"Don't go without them, Spencer. Nobody likes a martyr."

And with that, he ducked into his cab and slammed the door.

...

It was on a complete impulse that I told the driver to take me to Alton Court. I needed something – anything - to do that would take my mind off the pips. Call me crazy and label me mad, I just couldn't face another wasted day of sitting and twiddling my thumbs on the sofa. If I'd been attending as normal, my shift didn't actually start for another half-hour meaning I had a good chance of being paid my full wage. Thankfully the hotel kept our uniforms in a room in the basement so I just had to run in and pick up my size. Apparently we weren't to be trusted with looking after a simple skirt and blouse.

Most of the maids were already up on the floors, trying to get their rounds done while guests were at meetings or having lunch. This meant only a couple of waitresses were in the changing rooms when I entered. I felt relieved that I didn't know them, keen to put off the whole 'I heard what happened' conversation for as long as possible.

I eased my arm into the long-sleeved blouse, grateful for the high neckline that would hide my elastic bandage. I was doubly thankful for the spare pair of skin coloured tights I kept in case one lot laddered and also for the black flats I always left in my locker. No one would be the wiser that I hadn't intended to come into work.

Before I left, I swallowed two of the tablets Sherlock had filched for me. I wasn't so petty as to ignore his surprising, if double-edged, kindness. There were a few carts left in the bay, including the one I usually claimed as my own. Unlike many of the others, it didn't have a dodgy wheel to contend with. It made steering a lot easier; something I gathered I'd appreciate today.

I'd almost made it to the lift when a voice called for me to stop. Busted.

"Miss Spencer."

I turned around warily to face the one and only Delia Thomas, plastering a bright smile across my face. It was all I could do to keep my expression from failing - it was worse than I'd thought; she was wearing her glasses.

"Yes ma'am?" I asked meekly, clasping my hands worriedly.

"I wasn't aware that you would be attending to your duties today." Her tone was disapproving and more than a smidge disdainful.

I fumbled to reply. "I thought I'd make the effort ma'am." Her lips thinned in her powdered face. She was thinking that it hadn't bothered me over the past month, the stingy snob. I hurried to correct myself. "I know how troublesome it is to reorganise shifts."

Troublesome? Of all the words in the English language, why had I picked troublesome?

The stern lines lessened a bit but not with sympathy. "Well your arrival is rather fortunate, if a little belated. The other housekeeper for the fourth floor is absent so you'll have to cover her rooms as well as your own."

Of course Lucy wasn't in. 'Her fiancé has just died!' – I wanted to yell. My heart – that had sank in remembrance for my friend's tragedy – twisted with anger at Thomas' insensitivity.

I wished desperately to say something but couldn't make my lips form the reprimanding words.

Just as I sensed she was about to let me go, Thomas' eagle eyes caught my skewed collar and worse, the white of the elastic underneath it.

"That is not regulation uniform," she remarked coldly.

I blushed at the censure. "It's not for vanity, ma'am," I said quietly, switching back to submissive maid mode. "It was recommended by my doctor for my-"

"Of course, it was you who was involved in that little disturbance in the Churchill Suite." The way she pitched it made it sound like the whole thing was my fault. My initial reaction was to retort indignantly but then I remembered, just in time, who I was talking to. "Can you work properly?"

Much to my dismay, I stuttered. "I...I think so ma'am."

A large part of me was disgusted that I, a grown woman, was faltering under the stare of an uppity cow. I'd been alone in the same room with Sherlock hadn't I? I'd conversed with Mycroft. So why was I being cowed by someone far less scary than either of those two?

"That you 'think so' isn't good enough. You're not to work Miss Spencer. I'll not have a lawsuit on my hands."

I drew myself up. I was going to have to fight for it. "Ma'am please. That's not necessary."

"I think you'll find it is. I have a responsibility to the company as well as to you."

I nearly scoffed openly at that but a stray thought leaked from her mind, giving me pause. Its information was surprising to say the least: her frosty front aside and however warped it might have been, she really did feel like she had an obligation towards us.

I almost felt guilty for calling her a cow; almost, but not quite.

"Please ma'am, I can still work," I begged. To my horror, I felt the tell-tale prickle behind my eyes. It appeared that the day's drama had finally caught up with me. I sincerely hoped it wasn't PMS making me a spineless wimp; that was the last thing I needed. "I can't be without the money."

Thomas' eyes softened. Only marginally mind, but they definitely didn't hold the flint they'd contained earlier. "There's no need to get upset Miss Spencer," she said awkwardly. Her tone was a bit off but I suspected it was meant to be comforting. I had to give her points for trying though. She spoke carefully, as if favours were a new concept to her. "Perhaps...perhaps I can find you some temporary administration work? Have you any experience?"

"I took an accounting course at sixth form," I offered hesitantly, reluctant to lie or blow my chances. Truthfully I had, but I hadn't refreshed it or anything - I'd never encountered the need to. I tried to keep the desperation from my voice but I don't think it worked very well.

"That'll do. I don't know what it'll be," she warned me sternly, "But at least you'll be getting something. Is that suitable?"

I nodded mutely; too surprised to utter my thanks.

She took in my pale appearance and the way I was holding my arm before speaking shrewdly. "Take a couple more days of rest and then return. You'll still have a job when you get back." Her lips twitched; a ghost of a smile. Oddly it reminded me of Mycroft. "Go home, Hannah."

I finally found my tongue. "Thank you," I said softly. "You've got no idea how much I appreciate it."

Thomas nodded briskly and gestured meaningfully in the direction of the door, resuming her accustomed bearing. I wasn't fooled. I know knew I'd been wrong about the woman and I was going to make sure that I remembered it whenever our paths crossed.

Starting down the hallway, I felt lighter somehow. I hadn't realised I'd been so worried about work; Thomas' reassurance had lifted an unexpected weight from my chest. I was glad that people still had the ability to surprise me. It wasn't comforting - that wasn't the right word – but refreshing was perhaps a better one. When I turned back, she was gone.

I was still smiling like a sentimental fool when I walked straight into somebody. This time there was no coffee to stain my shirt but my neck jerked painfully. Regardless of the medication I'd taken, I winced involuntarily.

"Are you okay? I'm really sorry, I wasn't looking."

I peered up in surprise, placing the voice easily. When he saw my face, the man's dark eyes widened in recognition.

"Hannah?"

"Heya Matt. Uh, sorry about that, I guess I should've been watching where I was going."

"No harm done," he grinned. "It's always a pleasure to bump into a pretty lady."

I flushed a distinctly unattractive shade of red. Instead of being creepy like it would've been coming from any other guy, Matt's sweet, almost chivalrous demeanour meant he could carry it off. I didn't know how to reply but luckily he spoke first.

"So you're back are you?"

"Sort of. Thomas sent me home for a couple more days, but I'll be working properly soon."

He nodded. "That's good to hear. I was worried when I heard what'd happened."

"I was kinda worried too, to tell you the truth." A genuine, slight smile slid across my face.

That won me a laugh. I caught myself listening to it, admiring it's strange but pleasant tone. A wave of worry coursed through his consciousness and his face fell.

"I didn't knock your arm did I?" He demanded worriedly.

"Nah. Not really."

I felt his relief. He looked down at his shiny, black shoes and twisted his hands in the pockets of his slacks – the uniform of a maitre d' – suddenly shy. "I, uh, I know Lucy's already spoken to you but I figured I should ask in person." His embarrassment caused his voice to stumble a little.

I wondered off-handedly if one of his parents, or maybe even grandparents, was Irish - it would account for his faintly lyrical accent.

He took a deep breath and rushed on, afraid that I would interrupt. "Did you want to go out sometime? I mean, there'd be no conditions or strings attached or anything."

"I'd like that," I said shyly.

Honestly, I could have smacked my palm against my face. How old was I? Sixteen?

Again I felt his nervousness subside but this time it was mixed with something else. The irregular emotion was gone before I could place it. He glanced at his watch and scowled when he saw the time.

"I'm sorry but I'd better get a move on," he winked at me. "You know how posh people get if the service's lacking. I'll catch you later?"

The question was carefully posed, giving me one final chance to back out. I didn't take it. "Yeah, I guess you will," I replied with a smile in my voice.

Even now, all these years later, I marvel at the sheer degree of density I displayed in that moment. I had no idea what I'd just let myself in for; no clue at all.

* * *

**A/N: **Long? Check. Filler-ish? Check? Boring? Hopefully not! I'm trying my hand at the loom guys, weaving canon and original material. Feel free to let me know if the balance if off and I've got too much of one and not of the other. It's the only thing that keeps bugging me.

I want to apologise to **Nicknames. Are. Troublesome** whose name got mysteriously cut off when I was editing the last chapter. If you're out there: sorry for that!

Tips of the hat to the following people for making me feel a little bit special: **Silvermoon of Forestclan**, **bgm76**, **DarknessDrought**, **Genguice**, **LexieBird**, **sakura-chan2222**, **SexyKnickers**, **Lil Mizz SunShyne X x**, **SensiblyScrewy**, **Jfreak**, **Laudine**, **adarnnya** and **Noelle M.**

Penny for your thoughts? Otherwise, have a great week!


	10. A Bizarre Chemical Fluke

**Weighing His Words**

**Chapter Ten:**

"**A Bizarre Chemical Fluke."**

I nearly pitched face first into the shag pile carpet that covered the floor of Mycroft's ground floor office, it was that deep. Mind you, the heels I'd donned couldn't have been helping. I guess he'd always struck me as a marble kind of guy but, as one furtive glance around the room confirmed, his private workplace had more of a stately feel to it. No doubt it mirrored the decor of whatever country estate he and Sherlock had grown up on. I hurried to right myself, straightening my skirt as I did.

"Sorry," I said breathlessly. "Couldn't get hold of a taxi."

"Ah, Hannah, come in," Mycroft gestured lazily to the space behind John. Ever polite, the doctor went to stand. I smiled my gratitude but shook my head. There was no way I wanted a front row seat for this. "Good of you to join us."

I bobbed my head in acknowledgment and put on what I hoped was a calm, businesslike front. In reality, I'd practically flown out of the house when the text had come through.

Paranoia rarely suits anyone.

"He was involved in the Bruce-Partington Programme in a minor capacity. Security checks A-OK. No known terrorist affiliations or sympathies." I blinked in surprise, realising with a start that they were talking about Andrew. Then I chided myself silently; of course they'd be discussing him. After studying me for a moment, the older man swivelled his gaze back to John. "Last seen by his fiancée ten-thirty yesterday evening."

"He was found at Battersea, yes? So he got on the train?"

"No," Mycroft said simply, perching on edge of the polished desk and folding his arms.

John raised his eyebrows and I leaned forward attentively. Despite what looked like convincing evidence, I still wasn't sold on the suicide theory.

"What?"

Mycroft looked incredibly smug; like his brother, it appeared he enjoyed knowing things others didn't. "He had an Oyster card," he began but winced suddenly, pressing his hand to his cheek. Even if I couldn't read his mind like I could John's, I could tell his tooth was bothering him a fair bit. John noticed too but tactfully chose not to pass comment. "But it hadn't been used."

"He must have bought a ticket."

"But why?" I interrupted.

My thoughts had turned in the same direction as John's. It didn't make any sense. In life, I'd known Andrew to be a quiet, down-to-earth man who'd believed in tackling situations before they worsened irredeemably. Something must have spooked him pretty bad if he'd run off without a proper explanation. Once more I wondered what had spiralled so out of control for him.

I chewed my lip in thought. "He left Lucy at half ten. Where could he possibly need to go that couldn't wait 'til morning?"

When an uncharacteristic smirk twisted at one corner of Mycroft's mouth, I knew I'd gotten something wrong. "There was no ticket on the body."

Oh.

John's brow furrowed, "Then..."

"Then how did he end up with a bashed-in brain on the tracks at Battersea?"

I winced at his blunt phrasing and my distaste morphed into a flicker of annoyance. I mightn't have been close to Westie but I was friends with Lucy; it already felt wrong that I was standing in a room discussing his death with a stranger – someone who considered it nothing more than an inconvenience. I scowled at "the British Government" but remained silent; my displeasure didn't stand a chance at traversing the gap between our authorities.

Mycroft continued despite my expression, either unaware or unbothered. I guessed it would probably be the latter. "That is the question; the one that I was rather hoping that Sherlock would provide an answer to. How's he getting on?" He intoned the question in such a way that clearly showed he was sceptical about the level of his brother's involvement.

John wasn't deterred."He's fine. And it's going...very well." His hesitation almost gave him away. Seen as my cowardice in refusing the seat had left him in the firing line, I decided to step in.

"It'll take him a while to really get going," I said clearing my throat, setting my irritation to one side. "You know how lazy your brother is when it comes to investigating, especially when it doesn't immediately present him with the opportunity to get his microscope out." I looked at John, who dipped his head in agreement. "We'll make sure he does it properly."

Mycroft seemed marginally appeased. "I'm confident you will." He drew himself up slightly. As if we really needed to be reminded of who was of greater importance. "Now, if you two don't mind, I have some matters that need attending to. I trust you'll keep me suitably informed." He strolled leisurely to his chair and sat down, drawing the black telephone on the left closer to him and picking up the handset. It was a clear dismissal.

Although why he really needed two desk phones was a mystery.

We backed out of the office, John shutting the door behind us and started down the long, narrow hallway that led to the reception. Again, I couldn't help be surprised at the unlikely headquarters. Like Mycroft's office, the interior of the building was outfitted much like an old manor house; all heavy sweeping drapes and great, glossy windows that opened using wrought iron handles.

As we passed yet another low-backed, upholstered loveseat, I realised it was the sheer presence of wood that made the place feel so formidable. Mahogany was everywhere; buffed to the highest sheen, it even reflected the soft artificial lighting that illuminated the building. I was glad I hadn't had to wait around; I felt inexplicably scruffy just walking through the corridors.

A severe looking woman watched us from her desk as we walked through the entrance hall, almost as if she was afraid we would somehow soil the carpet with our passing. I didn't think it was possible for her features to get anymore pinched and I caught myself speculating idly if it had something to do with the tightness of her bun. Our eyes met for a second before I glanced hastily away in embarrassment.

John held the door open for me and I uttered my thanks, stepping out into the night. When I checked my watch, I saw we'd been in there for all of ten minutes; a serious waste of a cab fare, if you asked me. I sighed, realizing I probably could've convinced the driver to wait, and tugged on the zip of my long coat. It was cold, but not bitterly so. John was peering down the road, hoping to snag a taxi back to Baker Street. I went to stand beside him.

"What do you make of it then?" I asked. "The case, I mean."

He turned to me. "Which one are we talking about here? There seems to be an abundance of them lately," he flashed me a crooked smile.

"Well, if he's not working on the plans, I'm guessing he's taken the bomber case? Did you find anything at 221C?"

He didn't bother to ask how I knew that. "Uh, yeah actually; shoes."

"Shoes?"

"Well, not just shoes; trainers really."

I was bewildered. What would a bomber want with shoes?

John must have recognised the look on my face because he answered my unspoken question. "Sherlock reckons they belonged to someone he knew; Carl Powers?" I didn't recall the name. "If he's right then it's linked to a murder investigation from when he was still at school."

I made a small noise of surprise. "If it was anyone but Sherlock, I'd say it was personal."

"You're probably right," he grinned. His smile faded as he checked the time on his phone. "He's got just over three hours left." I'd already probed his mind so I didn't need him to elaborate– three hours before some poor woman got blown to pieces. "Wait a sec, did I tell you..." He trailed off, his eyes widening. "You already know, don't you?"

"Sorry?" I offered. I was struck, not for the first time, that it had to be unnerving having somebody know your thoughts; especially if you weren't sure whether they were listening or not. I'd find it maddening.

"It's alright. If you can't help it, you can't help it," he said with a sigh. "It's a bit strange, that's all."

"I mean, I try but..."

"It'd be exhausting, thinking about not hearing things all the time. I can imagine." He tilted his head, his eyes crinkling, "Well, actually I can't but..."

"I know what you mean," I said quietly. I was privately pleased he was at least making the effort to not be weirded out. He was far more open-minded than I imagined myself being had the roles been reversed.

He shuffled restlessly beside me and I faced him, sensing something was on his mind. "Can you, uh, promise me something Hannah?" The words were hesitant; uneasy.

"I can try," I said warily. "What do you need?"

His thoughts, like his expression, were suddenly unreadable. He struggled to find the right words to express himself and I waited patiently, albeit a little nervously. Finally, he spoke, drawing in a deep breath. "If you hear something, you know, inside my head, will you not relay it?" I could also tell that he was trying his upmost not to offend me, bless him. He hurried on, "I mean, I'm not talking about private things – I know you wouldn't do that – just the littler bits. You know, like my musings or whatever. Not that I-"

And then, abruptly, I got it.

Truthfully, before that moment, I guess I'd never really thought about how much trust someone - who knew what I could do - would have to extend to me. In a way, dabbling around in someone's head was just plain nosey and downright invasive. If I'd been the person who knew their thoughts weren't entirely their own, I honestly couldn't say how I'd treat the telepath. I'd like to think I'd be fair but...I'd find the situation difficult, I'd admit.

I was ashamed that I'd never really given it much thought before. It was almost the same as reading someone's emails or going through their texts, wasn't it? A mixture of hurt at John's suspicion and self-directed disgust coursed through me. I deftly separated the emotions. The former was irrational – his reaction had been more reasonable than it truthfully ought to have been. However, the disgust was simply something I was going to have to be adult about.

Like John had just said: If I couldn't help it, I shouldn't fret. But I added an extra phrase to balance the morality: If I could help it, I should go through the motions, at the very least.

"I understand," I soothed, smiling kindly and meeting his eyes. "You have my word." I spoke slowly, both to convey my honesty and to make myself commit to the integrity. He tried to speak again but I didn't give him the opportunity. "Your thoughts are your own, John. By a bizarre, chemical fluke, I can hear them but it's not my place to take them from your mouth."

"I wasn't saying that-"

I cut him off, "John, it's cool."

He'd pressed he lips shut but his mouth was still set worriedly. I looked at him curiously, scrutinizing him with renewed respect. It seemed it wasn't just this man's flatmate who was a source of enlightenment. We were both silent for a moment, neither of us feeling the need to push the matter further. When John opened his mouth to say something, the flash of approaching headlights commanded his attention. He held out his hand to signal the taxi but it rolled past, switching its service light off. He sighed.

"I hate it when they do that," He grumbled. "Did you want to share one anyway?"

"I can walk back. It's not far and the way's well lit," I shook my head. I'd already decided I needed some fresh air.

"Are you sure?" He frowned.

"Positive. Besides, the sooner you get back, the sooner you can start helping Sherlock again." A wry smile formed in the corners of his mouth. I corrected myself. "Okay, maybe 'helping' isn't the right term."

"Standing over his shoulder, maybe?" He suggested with a grin. It soon grew serious. "It's not that I'm worried he'll lose focus – he's like a bloodhound when it comes to these things – it's just...he doesn't always have his priorities straight."

The dexterous fingers of the wind trailed along my unguarded neck and I shivered. "I know what you mean. It's like he doesn't comprehend that there're lives involved."

"Well sometimes I reckon it's more than that." He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. I resisted the impulse to read him. While it wouldn't have contradicted my promise, it seemed hypocritical in light of our conversation. I guess old habits really do die hard. "It's like he knows but doesn't care," he shook his head, almost to himself. "I'm not sure which is more unnerving, that or the fact that he keeps severed heads next to the milk."

I faced him, startled."He didn't, did he?"

John simply nodded grimly. Another cab pulled onto the road and again he stuck out his hand. I watched it draw toward us when I had a sudden thought. Unthinkingly, I laid a hand on his arm. His unguarded emotions coursed into me but I ignored them.

"Do you still have the case notes for 'the Blind Banker'?"

"Uh yeah, I think so. Why? Do you want 'em?"

"Just for a couple of days. I'm kinda curious to know more about who shot me, that's all."

He gave me a sharp look. Damn. When'd he get so clever? "You're not going to do anything stupid are you?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," I spread my hands innocently. "But there's not much on the internet and 'til I get back to work, I've got nothing better to do all day."

That seemed to placate him a little but the wary spark never left his eyes. I groaned privately. Why of all times had he picked now to become shrewd? But then I had to amend that; in his own way, John had always been wise – I'd only just recognised it.

The vehicle stopped, idling next to the curb. He reached forward and pulled open the door. "I'll email them through when I get back," he said finally. "That is, if I don't get dragged out on another impromptu outing."

"Thanks John, I appreciate it."

He nodded."Are you sure you don't want a lift?"

"Quite sure." I ushered him in. "Don't let him run you too ragged."

He rolled his eyes. I slammed the door behind him, stepping back as the car pulled away. I watched its steady retreat with tired eyes.

A stray tendril of hair blew in front of my face and I puffed at it absently. Automatically, I ran my fingers through the dark mess, beginning to tease out the knots the wind had put in. I soon gave up the pointless exercise. It was getting long, I realised, almost annoyingly so. I made a mental note to ring up and book a trim. I lifted my coat collar, starting down the ill-paved path in the direction of home.

I'd gotten about twenty paces when a sleek but elegant sliver Jaguar slowed to a crawl beside me. Unnerved, I kept my gaze down with the intention of ignoring it but my plans were thwarted when passenger window rolled down. Mycroft's eerie voice floated out. "Hannah, I was rather hoping you'd still be here."

There was no way I could ignore that. I stopped, ducking my head and stooping awkwardly so I could see in the open window. I was surprised to see him in the driver's seat.

"Mycroft, what can I do for you?"

"All in good time. Where might I ask, is John?"

"He got a taxi back to Baker Street."

The man raised a brow in askance. I knew he was enquiring as to why I hadn't gone with him. "My presence doesn't really put Sherlock in good humour at the moment," I explained. "It's probably better that he's focussed on the case." I was choosing not to specify which it was.

"And he left you to make your own way?" If he'd been twenty years older and female, he would've clucked his tongue. "London's hardly the place for a young woman to be walking alone." His tone was disapproving. I gathered it was more for John's lapse in gentlemanly behaviour rather than my own safety. I was more amused than offended, so I shrugged.

"I'll only take me about half an hour."

"We can't have that, can we? Do get in."

I froze but my heart sank; I knew an order when I heard one. I scrambled hopelessly for an excuse but one wasn't forthcoming. I really was going to have to be alone with him. I tugged on the handle with what can only be described as reluctant caution and folded myself into the leather seat. "Filmer Road, yes?" I nodded mutely. "I remember the place."

I repressed a shudder; I too was remembering that night.

"No doubt this will be interesting; you assisting John and my brother." Unfortunately for me, and despite his tooth, Mycroft seemed to be in the mood to talk.

"Uh...okay, I guess so." I said brilliantly.

He was unbothered by my conduct. "It is rather unusual that Sherlock tolerates you. It's nothing personal, you understand; it's simply remarkable how you've managed to work your way so quickly into the heart of things." He smiled coldly, "On a number of levels." My hand drifted towards my shoulder before I knew what I was doing. "Clearly you have intrigued him."

"Oh I don't think so," I laughed bitterly despite myself. "If I wasn't so hopelessly entangled in all this, he'd forget my existence. It's just a phase."

Mycroft's smile spread wider, showing teeth. I had a small flashback to the Churchill Suite; the gang-hand had worn much the same expression before he'd fired a bullet at me.

I wanted to bolt.

"You and I both know that that's not strictly the case."

I looked away. "I'm not sure I really want to keep throwing myself into the thick of it all. I've already gotten myself shot because I was seen with him."

He flipped his indicator and moved into the other lane. We were both quiet.

"And what if I was to make it worth your while?" I narrowed my eyes suspiciously."I would pay you to keep an eye on my brother. You'd feed me information every now and then and you'd be reimbursed for your efforts."

I wasn't fooled. "Why? Surely you have professionals who do that sort of thing?"

"Sherlock childishly insists on making an example of them." Mycroft sighed; a long suffering sound. "There are only so many trained scouts available, you know."

I looked disbelievingly at him. If an intelligence trained expert couldn't do it, how in the world did he expect me to? "And what makes you think I wouldn't get caught?"

"Oh I make no mistake that you would," Mycroft chuckled shortly. "However, I'm quite confident that he wouldn't retaliate."

"Really?" I felt my eyebrows rise. I wasn't so sure at all.

"I know my brother, Miss Spencer," was his only reply. Somehow, his words didn't inspire much confidence.

"No," I shook my head briskly. "It's not worth it."

"Two thousand pounds is a large sum. I'd imagine that it would ease your burden significantly." Put like that, the offer was indeed tempting, but it wasn't out of friendship for Sherlock that I refused. Without a shadow of a doubt, I knew there'd be unsavoury terms and conditions hidden in the small print.

"You'd be better finding someone else," I said firmly. "I want no part in it."

Mycroft's attention was focussed on the road but I could sense his annoyance. "Moral code," he exhaled with a hint of exasperation. "Just like John."

I decided that that was a complement.

I was quiet for a good five minutes after that. I couldn't really tell if he was angry or not and he gave no indication to negate or affirm my point. The soft notes of classical music filtered through the radio, filling the car. I wasn't really surprised at his choice, if I was honest. He grimaced suddenly and lifted his hand once again to his face.

"You should probably get that looked at," I remarked quietly.

"I've tried on several occasions. Unfortunately this country doesn't run itself." He was serious.

"Oh."

I figured it was probably better to shut up. Finally, after what seemed like a decade, we turned into my street. Mycroft stopped the car and I unbuckled my seatbelt before facing him. I bit my lip uneasily but spoke, relaying what was sitting heavily on my mind. "Not that I don't appreciate it, but why did you give me a lift? You could be home by now."

He studied me carefully before replying. "I want to extend a warning to you." My blood ran cold at his phrasing; the 'pip incident' was still all too fresh. He continued, "The Tong are not a gang to be trifled with. Some of my associates have tried to do so in the past and ended up...let's say worse for wear, shall we?" He pinned me with an astute glint in his eye. "While you might have...certain advantages, they will eradicate you if necessary. I urge you not to pry into their culture."

It took a moment before my throat became unstuck. I swallowed thickly. "How did you know?"

His lips twisted in that way of his. "Call it an educated hunch."

I called it CCTV and lip reading.

"I just want answers."

He sighed at that and shook his head slightly. "As do we all Hannah, as do we all."

I glanced at him distrustfully; I knew there was something he wasn't letting on. "What aren't you telling me? Why are you so concerned anyway? I'm nothing to you."

He didn't reply straight away. We might have been watching each other carefully but I'd put as much distance between us as was possible in the leather fitted interior. It would've been great if I could've called it an impasse but you know, the whole authority thing got in the way again.

My self-esteem would have to wait a little.

"Whether my brother likes it or not, you could be...valuable. There are a number of agencies I could name who would pay highly for someone of your talents."

I sat very still. Why did I get the sinking feeling that 'agencies' referred to something bigger and badder? Then it hit me. "You're protecting your interests, aren't you?" I demanded incredulously before I could stop myself. "That's what this is all about," my tone was accusing. The cloud of Mycroft's thoughts shifted almost intangibly but it was enough to confirm my suspicions. "John and Sherlock don't need my help with the plans; I already knew as much. It's a test. You just want me to be a star on your lapel." The words tumbled out before I could stop them.

My brain caught up with the runaway train that was my mouth and I suddenly remembered who I was conversing with. My jaws clicked together with a snap; outrage aside, I was aghast. The hefty cocktail of astonishment, anger and fright meant I half expected Mycroft to pull an autocrat and call in a hit squad or something. My body was paralysed with dread and anticipation. Then he did something that took me completely aback.

He laughed; a genuine, bona fide laugh.

I nearly passed out with the shock.

"I think you should go inside now," he said when he'd finished. His blue eyes – the very same eyes he shared with his brother – shone with amusement. I didn't like it.

Feeling returned slowly to my body and it was with leaden arms that I opened the car door. On shaky legs, I stepped from the formidable vehicle onto the pavement. Before I could shut it, Mycroft spoke again, his frightening modulation once again in place.

"Until next time, Miss Spencer."

As the sleek phantom of the car pulled away, I realized that he hadn't answered my original question.

What was he not telling me?

* * *

**A/N: **Not where I was expecting to head - this one kinda had a mind of its own! I must admit, I hit the 'my-goodness-this-is-undeniably-silly' phase while I was writing this. *shudders* It's a rather suckish feeling really.

Shout-outs to these wonderful people who never cease to encourage me: **adarnnya**, **littlelife**, **DarknessDrought**, **kitsmits**, **sakura-chan2222**, **Silvermoon of Forestclan**, **Lil Mizz SunShyne X x**, **daydreambuff**, **Genguice** and **bgm76**.

If you have the chance, please tell me what you think. I'd be thrilled to hear from you.

Have a great week!


	11. A Coward's Game

_This chapter is dedicated to all those lives that have been touched by the tsunami disaster. My deepest thoughts, prayers and hopes are turned to you as you begin to rebuild your homes and livelihoods._

**Weighing His Words**

**Chapter Eleven:**

"**A Coward's Game"**

I checked the address I'd scrawled on the cheerful sticky-note against the peeling font on the battered sign above me. "The Lucky Cat" - I definitely had the right place. As you can guess from my presence at the faded, red shop front, the dual warnings of Mycroft and John had only done so much to deter me. When put like that, coming here sounds like a pretty stupid move on my part but, I'd reasoned earlier, it wasn't like I was blundering in brandishing a police badge, a notepad and an IKEA pencil. The Partington case was only progressing so fast and the official investigation into my shooting had hit a dead end. Seen as Sherlock and I were still partaking in a philosophical standoff, any further answers were going to involve considerable leg-work at my end. While I didn't need to have the guy behind bars, I felt compelled to understand the circumstances in which I had gotten myself so hopelessly entrapped.

I had three questions. I just had no idea how to go about getting them answered.

The chimes jangled as I pushed the door open, announcing my entrance to anyone inside. Stepping across the threshold, I looked about with unconcealed interest. Small, wispy streaks of smoke floated from several elegantly shaped dishes and the distinctive smell of incense hung in the air. Oddly, I didn't find it cloying. I could only sense the presence of one other mind – a female mind. I guessed she was probably in the stock room, judging by the distance between myself and the hum, and hadn't heard me come in.

Question one was already ticked off: the language floating from her brain was the same I'd found in the gunman's. It might turn out to be purely coincidental, but it was a start nonetheless.

My eyes strayed to a shelf of delicate, no doubt hand painted teapots. I kept my hands folded carefully at my sides and gravitated towards them, not wishing to break anything by accident. The patterns were beautifully and expertly done and, as my gaze travelled down the line, I saw that each was slightly different. Cautiously, I picked one up and turned it over in my hands to test its weight. It was lighter than I'd expected. There were two symbols inked onto the adhesive rectangle that was stuck to the bottom. If I'd read John's notes correctly, they were part of a numbering system used almost exclusively by street traders such as these. I rooted around in my brain for the exact name but couldn't recall it.

I heard the woman approach the counter but I didn't turn to face her, instead continuing to study the merchandise in front of me. The Chinese of her thoughts was intermingled with smatterings of English as she considered how to address me.

"You wish to buy?" Her accent was moderately prominent but her words were carefully formed; like she was checking for errors in her translation before she spoke. If I was right, this was a proud woman.

I raised my head with a polite smile. "I'm alright thanks, just looking."

"Lucky cat, just ten pounds," she gestured to the row of waving felines sitting patiently in front of her.

"Maybe not today," I shook my head slightly. "But this is pretty." I indicated the teapot I was holding and pointed at the little sticker. "Um, what does it mean?"

"It is the price. Fifteen pounds, handmade. All the way from China."

"Thanks," I smiled gratefully.

As I put it back, I had an unexpected brainwave; one I was reluctant to pursue. The whole thing relied not so much on me and my mind-reading skills, but on her and the direction of her thoughts. I was going to have to make more than a few stabs in the dark if I was going to convince her to part with the information I wanted. I was silent for a moment longer while I considered the gaps in the plan.

I'm ashamed to admit I actually asked myself how Sherlock would look at the situation. I knew for a fact that he wouldn't hesitate. Not only would he seize the opportunity to scout for evidence, he'd probably go to even greater lengths to glean what he wanted. If he crashed his friend's date and broke into dead people's flats to get answers, I didn't even want to know how he'd play this one.

By the time this whole thing was over, I mused drily, I was going to have a "WWSD?" bracelet shackled to my wrist.

In the same way that Sherlock's and Mycroft's minds shared a likeness, the woman's thought pattern was similar to another one I'd encountered; the gunman's. The resemblance wasn't quite as crystal clear as the Holmes' were, but there was something about the way that both she and he formed their opinions that gave me pause. Although more of her thoughts were in English, I reasoned that she'd have to use it more often since she spent her time running a shop. While I didn't know what he did for a day-job, I could definitely feel...something...that linked the two.

I rifled through the facts I remembered from John's notes. The Tong smuggled Chinese artefacts across the border. Most of them ended up here and were redistributed to European dealers at a later date. This place had to be significant. It seemed pretty likely that the lady was in on it. If that was the case, then I'd know, almost for definite, that I'd been gunned down by the member of a notorious gang.

Whichever way it turned out, my mother was not going to be pleased.

John had also speculated that they were acting under outside orders, but even with my limited sleuthing skills, I was sceptical. Who could possibly have the power to command a group that had more branches than LloydsTSB?

Of all the far-fetched aspects of this scheme, the line of questioning I was about to pursue was certainly the most dodgy. I furtively eyed the woman while feigning interest in a series of decorative fans. I was a good head taller than her and my path to the door was unobstructed. I figured the worst she could do was hurl a cat statue at me, but who knew what firearm was concealed under the wide bench. A silly thought perhaps, but she was a potential gang hand.

Since I didn't have John's disarming charm or Sherlock's unexpectedly fluent thespian skills, I was simply going to have to be careful. I was pretty sure I could manage it; after all, I did have a slight advantage. If my concentration didn't break and she didn't revert to Chinese, I'd know what she wanted to hear.

"It's Hang Zhou, isn't it?" I asked suddenly. I glanced towards the shopkeeper, seeing her eyebrows rise in surprise as she recognised the name.

"Clever girl," she nodded, flashing me a wide smile. "How do you know?"

I didn't leave myself time to delay. I plunged straight ahead with the lie. "My boss works closely with traders from China. I often help him value antiques." I crossed my fingers mentally. This was it. "Actually, I'm here on his behalf." Her expression slackened with suspicion. I faltered briefly but pushed on. It wasn't like I had to get a password off her or anything; she only had to be convinced of my innocence.

"He's chasing a relic. It would've been shipped recently."

"I am sorry. I do not understand," she spread her hands in a false display of regret. Had her thoughts not spoken otherwise, I would've been convinced.

"You do," I said shortly, but softened. "I'm sorry. I'm just a little pushed for time. There were two men who came in here, over a month ago. Lukis and a banker named Van Coon? They each had something for the people you work for, something valuable." Her disbelieving facade didn't slip but, despite the language barrier, I could feel the calculating nature of her deliberation; I'd had enough experience with decoding emotion to discern that. "Paintings, statues, vases, things like that." I took yet another risk, "I'm employed by the man who organises it for you. It's me who makes sure there are gaps at Customs."

The woman was silent for a moment; her gaze both narrow and cunning. I supposed, working in this business that she had to be shrewd. She wouldn't have lasted this long without the ability to think on her feet. I really hoped my plan wasn't going to crash and burn before it had even taken off.

"What is his name?"

I sensed she was trying to catch me out. Why? I wasn't sure, but the information was enough for me to adapt my lie appropriately. I just hoped that I hadn't reacted too slowly while I processed the new facts.

I quirked an eyebrow. "We both know that my boss isn't one for prolonged introductions."

I felt her relax slightly, halfway convinced of my sincerity. I was relieved; this whole farce was severely stretching my ability to multi-task. Eavesdropping on a monolingual mind was complicated enough, but I had separate Chinese from English and bluff my way through a conversation at the same time. I'd take the hard Sudoku in the paper any day. "We're looking for someone."

The woman crossed her arms. Not defensive, as common misinterpretation would have you believe, but unimpressed. "Their name?"

This was by far the biggest pothole. In the same way that Soo Lin Yao's Origami lotus had been inscribed with 'Zhi Zhu', mine had read something else. Scotland Yard had taken it to be a name and I didn't have another theory to counter it.

"Xi Yi," I replied smoothly with confidence that I didn't feel.

She tried to cover up her flinch but I'd already seen it. I was on to something.

"I do not know him." While I was reading her surface thoughts, playing lie detector, I abruptly recognized the connection linking the two. Her poorly concealed distress only served to confirm my suspicions.

"Of course you do," I said gently. "He's your son."

She held herself very still, struggling for words as she cast about for a way to throw me off the scent without inviting further suspicion. Her search returned nothing. She nodded reluctantly. Her alarm had caused her mind to regress to Chinese. The playing field tipped once again in her favour. From here on out, I was on my own. I was going to have to count on reactions to feed me my lines.

"But he is only a...courier for us." I interpreted the 'us' part as confirmation of her involvement with the Black Lotus. In light of the evidence, her words were pretty conclusive; questions two and three had been answered in one hit. I was finished here. "I do not know where he is."

I might've learned everything I'd come for, but I could hardly just turn around and walk out. If I brought scrutiny upon myself, I could only guess that they'd send somebody to finish the job.

"Are you certain?" I asked. "My boss doesn't have time to ferret out the truth. He needs information and he needs it now," I bit my lip and gave her what I hoped was the professional equivalent of a pleading look. Did 'good cop' apply to this situation? I made another vague leap. "He isn't a patient man."

When her face paled and her mouth set, I realised just what I'd inferred. But my error held an unexpected bonus; something I hadn't even thought to look for. Her reaction had clearly told me that my 'boss' had a reputation for violence; so much so that it alarmed someone who was involved with a crime syndicate.

Just who was this man?

"I do not know where." The repetition had a cold, dangerous tone to it.

I pretended not to notice. "It's okay ma'am," I said kindly. "I believe you, I was just making sure. I'll let you be on with your work," I made myself smile at her. She didn't return the look and, to be honest, I hadn't expected her to.

Something told me I was no longer welcome so I crossed the length of the shop, making for the exit. I figured I should probably leave before another lotus was folded in my name.

"Take this."

Surprised, I turned around at the sound of her voice. She was holding out a tattered, dog-eared copy of the Yellow Pages. I reached for it automatically. Puzzled, I glanced down at it, about to hand it back with the explanation that I already had a copy, but saw it was an older version. It'd expired four years ago. "The code has changed."

It only took me a moment to catch her drift. "Thanks."

Sherlock had broken their previous cipher so it stood to reason that they'd pick a new text to work from. They were taking no chances, I mused, if they were using an outdated script. Nobody holds on to an old version of the telephone directory. I tucked it under my arm and turned to go, acutely aware of her stare on my back. The chimes clinked together as I let myself out.

...

The rest of that day passed without event. In fact, I'd heard nothing from either John or Sherlock until the next morning when I switched my phone on. The message icon blinked calmly as I tapped the screen to read it.

_Greasy Spoon Cafe. _

_9.00. _

_SH_

I frowned at the handset. Did he really think that I'd drop everything and run? Reaching for my keys, I shook my head with a sigh.

Of course he didn't assume it; he knew I'd come.

...

I slid into the empty seat beside John. The good doctor, who was in the middle of inhaling a pile of bacon and sausages, managed a greeting. Sherlock, who'd predictably ordered nothing, did not.

"All okay?" I asked quietly. Sherlock might've texted me, but I still wasn't sure where we stood.

The detective inclined his head briefly and turned his attention back to his thoughts. I focussed intently on my musings to anchor myself, trying to drown out his observations with my own. For once, I didn't really feel like dipping into his one-hundred mile an hour reflections. Like always, the obnoxious noise beat against me but I'd found I could muffle it better in public. After all, it's easier to lose something in a crowd.

"You look like you needed that," I said, nodding to the now empty plate.

John took a sip of his drink and smiled. "We've hardly stopped for breath since this thing started."

"I take it you've solved another one then?"

"Yeah. The wife was in on it." I'd been true to my word and stayed out of John's head so I was confused for all of a moment. He quickly filled me in.

The 'missing' man had struck a deal with dubious car dealership, Janus Cars, and in exchange for half his life insurance, they'd faked his death. He got relocated to Colombia, Mrs Monkford got a nice sum of money in place of a failing marriage and the agency was reimbursed for their efforts. The win-win situation was easy enough to follow.

I dipped my head in understanding. "So why am I here again?" The detective didn't reply immediately. "Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"You texted me," I reminded him slowly. "I just wanted to know why."

Remembrance lit his features. "Oh yes, I wanted to see something."

I looked at him, puzzled. My confusion deepened when he didn't elaborate. "And what was that?" I asked hesitantly.

Sherlock considered me thoughtfully for a while and I shrank slightly, avoiding his eyes. An answer wasn't voiced and his internal response was lost to the density of the noise I'd drowned it in. I decided I was probably better off not knowing. I changed the subject.

"So are we down to three pips now?" Sherlock roused himself again and gave me another deliberate look. It took me a moment to work out what I'd done. "Sorry. I take it he hasn't sent another puzzle yet?"

"No. Not yet," he drummed his fingers impatiently on the tabletop. "It shouldn't be long."

The three of us sat in silence. John drank his builder's tea, unfazed by his companion's edginess. I studied him closely in my peripheral vision, noting the deep-set bags underneath his eyes. Of the two, he looked worse for wear than the detective but I supposed Sherlock was well accustomed to sleep deprivation by now.

When I couldn't stand the stillness any longer, I spoke up. "Do we know anything about him? The bomber, I mean?"

"Not much and what we do know is mostly guesswork. He likes to oversee it all. He doesn't feel the need to get involved," the detective gestured with his hands. "It means he's got a network of followers, cohorts, that he trusts; likely extensive given the resources he uses. He's extremely well versed in criminal activity and is obviously well read enough to have known about the pips."

Neither of us had anything more to add. I was firmly torn between telling him about my own receipt of a caution and keeping my mouth shut.

John put down his mug. "Has it occurred to you-"

"Probably."

I rolled my eyes but paid attention anyway.

"No, has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope, breaking into the other flat, the dead kid's shoes- it's all meant for you."

"Yes, I know." He looked strangely proud at that.

I watched him carefully. There was something wrong about that smile. It should've been, I dunno, more serious, sombre but it was too... animated than was socially reasonable. He was enjoying this, too much for his own good. I found myself worrying that he was getting too caught up. If he carried on like this, it was inevitable that someone would get hurt. I wanted to say something, to refocus his perspective. I didn't know if John had noticed that particular grin, but it struck me that Sherlock needed rethink his involvement.

Equally worrying was my growing attachment to the pair. I'd been fond of John right from the offset, but harbouring affection for Sherlock? If I was at all concerned with self-preservation, I needed to squash those feelings pretty quickly. However, I put those alarming thoughts to one side.

"Sherlock?" His head swivelled towards me. The instant our eyes locked my courage fled, taking with it all my intentions of warning. "Uh, actually, never mind," I said quietly, lowering my gaze. How could I make him see the danger?

John was oblivious to my internal dilemma. "Is it him then? Moriarty?"

Sherlock shifted forward slightly."Perhaps."

The pink phone had been resting on the table when it bleeped suddenly. We stared at it for a moment before Sherlock extended his hand and swiped his finger over the screen. I held my breath as I waited, wondering what the puzzle was going to be this time. I had the feeling that John was doing the same. The synthetic pips bleeped three times. A portrait popped up on screen with a ping. We all leaned in simultaneously.

The woman in the picture was heavily made-up and her hair was obviously dyed. Judging from her cosmetically whitened teeth, and the fact that I recognised her from somewhere, I guessed she was a celebrity of some description. I frowned thoughtfully but couldn't put a name to the face.

"That could be anybody," Sherlock said disgustedly.

I saw a smile twitch in the corner of John's mouth. "Well, it could be, yeah," he went to stand and I slid my chair in so he could get out. "Lucky for you, I've been more than a little unemployed."

"How d'you mean?" He demanded. I gathered that he was irritated that he'd needed John's guidance.

"Lucky for you," John continued, "Mrs Hudson and I watch far too much telly." He weaved his way through the other tables and grabbed a remote from the counter by the till. Pressing the button, the blank screen flickered to life. He flipped through the channels before settling on a chat-show type program. Connie Prince, that's who it was.

I glanced down again at the pink mobile. That blasted thing embodied all the worry that'd suddenly been brought to the forefront of my mind. I made the impulsive decision to tell Sherlock about the pips. If I just mentioned it in passing, maybe I wouldn't feel so threatened.

"Sherlock, can I-"

It rang unexpectedly, making me jump. He picked it up swiftly and lifted the handset to his ear in one smooth motion. It'd only chimed once.

"Hello?"

I strained my ears but couldn't hear the person on the other end. My heart went out to the poor soul that was almost certainly cocooned in Semtex. I watched Sherlock's face carefully, trying to discern what was happening. Cautiously, I relaxed my hold on my mind letting everything else pour in. I located Sherlock's thoughts almost at once and honed in on them, allowing the others to fade out beyond my range.

It was an old woman. Pity twisted in my chest. John had told me how the killer worked, using his victims as a mouthpiece. It was a coward's game but one with a potentially ruthless outcome. The bomber would not hesitate to detonate; on that, Sherlock and I agreed. As I listened, my sympathy turned to anger. The degrading things he was forcing her to say, demanding her humiliation, told me something important about his character; this man enjoyed holding power over others.

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock asked calmly. His tone had other layers but I didn't have the leisure to pick them apart. My attention was solely focussed on the plight of the helpless woman. Be it for better or worse, Sherlock's wasn't. His mind was poised and ready for the challenge, his thoughts carefully controlled lest they influence his judgment.

I was still seething when he hung up, but bit my cheek. There was nothing to be gained from a full-on rant. John looked quizzically at Sherlock but the detective just shook his head. Only the very slight manner in which he moved hinted that he was surprised by the bomber's choice of quarry; but you had to know him to notice it. His mind refused to register the unwelcome emotion and he pushed it aside, turning to watch the television. Connie Prince filled that screen too.

"What happened?" John asked worriedly. "Sherlock?"

When he didn't reply, I spoke for him. "He's taken on another puppet." I tried to make the words bitter but they came out at barely a whisper. Sure John had told me how it all worked, but having it happen right in front of you? It was chilling. I felt cold to the bone. "An old woman."

Sherlock didn't question how I knew; his focus was too riveted on the news program. John's face was filled with all the compassion I felt.

"Christ."

"Yeah, tell me about it," I said shakily.

The doctor shot me sympathetic look before turning to Sherlock. "To St. Bart's then?" He asked wearily.

"Yes," he stood up. "I'll have Molly get me access to the body and the records." Sherlock cast a critical eye over me as he drew his long coat around him. "You probably shouldn't come with us," he said shortly. Before I could be respond he added, "You look a little pale."

I was surprised, to say the least. Was that...concern? I shook myself mentally. It was merely an observation. If I'd been less rattled by the call, I would've laughed at my assumption.

"I can't anyway. I've gotta be a work in half an hour."

I attempted to compose myself by adopting a businesslike tone. My grip on Sherlock's mind loosened and the rest of the world came flooding in, clamouring persistently for attention. I blinked a couple of times, trying to keep myself in my own head. Eventually the racket quietened and I dropped my shoulders. I'd been tensing them unconsciously. John, who was struggling with the zip of his jacket, hadn't noticed my strange behaviour but Sherlock had been watching me closely.

He didn't ask if I was alright - which was probably just as well because my mouth would've fallen stupidly open. His eyes searched my face again, narrowing and relaxing in turn. I shut his thoughts firmly out. I didn't want to hear his contempt, not today; not after all this.

"Come on John. If we're quick, we can beat the worst of the traffic." His friend got up obediently and I reached for my bag. Sherlock turned to me, giving me one final, gauging look before speaking. "Take care Hannah."

By the time I'd formed a reply, he'd ushered John out of the door, leaving me alone at the empty table.

* * *

**A/N: **Not much to add this time. There was an awful lot of telepathy and I dunno...people in there. It really made me think twice while I was writing it. Oh and according to my research, Xi Yi is "lizard" in Chinese. Any mistake is my own. Also excuse the title and "..." align. The editor hates the centre button today!

The following people are the recipients of a complementary *cough* and virtual *cough* 'What Would Sherlock Do?' bracelet: **DarknessDrought**, **Jfreak**, **Silvermoon of Forestclan**, **kitsmits**, **Miss Write Away**, **Genguice**, **SexyKnickers**, **BurstOfSunshine**, **SensiblyScrewy**, **daydreambuff**, **bgm76 **and **adarnnya**.

If you have anything to add, positive or constructive, please do.


	12. Textbook Behaviour

**Weighing His Words**

**Chapter Twelve:**

"**Textbook Behaviour"**

"Where did you want these?" I asked quickly, interpreting the sudden lull in conversation as being placed on hold. Thomas regarded me briefly over the rims of her tortoiseshell glasses (because I realise now that people actually do that) and nodded towards one of several filing cabinets that occupied the room.

"Just over there please Hannah," she said, allowing me a small smile as she did.

If I wasn't mistaken, our frosty Hospitality Supervisor had grown rather fond of me during the fleeting hours we'd passed together. Perhaps it was just the novelty of a personal assistant that kept her in good humour, but I figured otherwise. She hadn't thawed completely and still had her cool moments, but surprisingly I welcomed her company. I found her thoughts to be collected and unobtrusive, prone to flashes of temper that were well hidden behind a professional mask.

I filed the papers in their designated slots without any trouble. The sun had lasted unusually late into the afternoon and it filtered in, unhindered by the spotless glass. I smiled to myself. Despite that I was on the wrong side of the windows, the weather had significantly boosted my spirits. Across the room, Thomas suddenly picked up where she'd left off, rattling off a long list of complicated orders down the mouthpiece. For lack of anything better to do, and having finished the forms that'd been set on my desk, I slipped from the room, keen to stretch my legs.

I made the idle trip down to the hotel's mail room with the intention of collecting that day's post. As I'd expected, Thomas' pigeon hole was occupied. I scooped up the assorted paraphernalia and removed the encasing rubber band. On a childish whim, I stretched the elastic taut and pinged it in the direction of the bin. I grinned when it landed neatly home.

Having retrieved what I'd come for, I strode along the corridor, nodding or calling greetings to my colleagues as they passed. When I reached the lift, I pressed the call button and took the prerequisite step back. Removing the correspondence from where I'd tucked it underneath my arm, I thumbed curiously through the stack, skipping over anything that looked or was marked confidential. The matt, silver doors slid open and I stepped inside. I absently hit G and glanced down again. My breath hitched when I saw what was on the top of the pile.

The elegant blue writing was undeniably familiar; the cursive script as neat and flowing as the last time I'd seen it. Even the thick paper – Bohemian, Sherlock had said – was the same. In fact, I was so shocked that it took several long moments before my brain could properly process what it was reading.

_Breathe Hannah, _I reminded myself. I did.

I re-read the envelope for a second and a third time. Only then was I finally satisfied that it wasn't addressed to me. My shoulders slumped with relief but my heart was still pounding away fiercely; its pattern and pace hadn't yet matched that of my thoughts.

But what did a bomber want with my boss? - For it was her name inscribed on the front.

The lift dinged and I walked out distractedly. I might have encountered people on the way back to the office, but I was too preoccupied to notice anyone, much less respond. I was at war with myself; torn between the idiocy of handing a criminal's post to Thomas or withholding it for the 'greater good.' What seemed like a no-brainer took a stupidly long time to justify.

I handled it cautiously, as if I were afraid it would detonate between my fingers. The envelope didn't look as bulky as the one I'd seen in Scotland Yard, but I seemed to recall that it was thicker than mine had been. I glanced down at it again, running my fingers over the expensive front of the ominous object. I felt myself frown. Since it was addressed to her, technically it'd be illegal to withhold her property, not to mention completely out of order. Besides, I tried to reassure myself, if it was the same as mine – a warning – then the package itself, and the pips inside it, were harmless.

Thomas had put the phone down and was pouring over a computer monitor when I returned. I set my burden down on her desk, the bomber's package on top.

"That's all of it," I said lightly.

A brief nod and a slight softening of her eyes conveyed her gratitude before she turned back to her work. I retreated to the space that was mine for my stint of desk-duty and sat down, waiting impatiently for her to open it. I pulled a completed form towards me, pretending to double check the details.

I tried again, "There doesn't seem to be as much today."

It took a good few moments before Thomas replied, "I wouldn't worry about it. It's the middle of the week after all and I'm not expecting anything."

"No?" The question slipped out before I could stop it. I feigned interest in the screen of my borrowed laptop, hoping that she'd think nothing of it. She didn't even glance at me. When I peered into her mind, her thoughts weren't even puzzled, let alone suspicious. I exhaled softly, silently reprimanding myself. This wasn't the first time I'd been careless of late - I was getting lazy.

"Was something down for delivery?" She asked eventually, reaching for the pile. She slid her glasses off the end of her nose and let them hang by their fine chain. "Ah, of course."

Not quite the reaction I'd expected. I tried to dismiss my speculations and looked up leisurely – or at least that was what I was aiming for. Thomas had the envelope in her hands and was sliding her thumb underneath the back of it.

"Anything exciting?" I genuinely couldn't help myself. I opened my awareness, extending it towards her so I could better reach her conscious. I knew it'd been a false alarm even before she spoke; her thoughts, as ever, were cool and perfectly unruffled.

"No, not really. It's just an invitation to a new exhibition at the Hickman Gallery."

"Oh, the uh...Lost Vermeer?" I said hesitantly. She nodded. "Yeah, I've seen the posters."

I was utterly baffled. Why the hell would a bomber invite Thomas to an art opening? Then I had a brainwave that brought me up short: it'd been dropped off, not posted.

My god, my boss knew a serial killer.

The idea was so ridiculous that I had to pause for a moment. I snuck a sideways glance at the severe woman who was currently frowning at the display and had to stifle a snort. There were so many gaps in my logic that I imagined even Sherlock would've had a hard time working around them (not that he'd ever admit it). Perhaps I was reading in too deep? It certainly seemed the likelier option. Regardless of my brief foray into private investigation at the Lucky Cat, I was no Lestrade.

So maybe it was the bomber who knew Thomas? The distinction might've been small but it was an important one. I nibbled the end of my pen absently; an irritating habit I'd retained from my school days. I refocused my thoughts, placing it deliberately on the desk to save the plastic the injustice of being mauled by my teeth. Truly there was no solid proof to verify any of my vague theories; coupled with the fact that no recognition had flickered when she'd read the front. It could simply be something as mundane as a VIP, mailing list thing she'd subscribed to.

Come to think of it, I couldn't be certain that it was actually the same handwriting.

Thomas addressed me suddenly but I was so wrapped up in my own head that I didn't hear what was said. I scrambled to act like I was paying attention, lifting my head to look at her. I scanned her surface thoughts quickly, skilfully separating them from the more intimate ones. Conveniently, the manner of them provided me with what I'd missed: she'd asked me if I was an art lover.

"Uh...not really. Books are my sort of thing," I replied politely. Surprisingly, I recognised mild disappointment as I pulled away from her consciousness.

Thomas glanced at the clock, punctuating it with a sigh. "It's ten to five now; I'm all but finished here. You can go if you'd like," the offer was almost uneasy; like she wasn't familiar with the procedure of such a proposal.

I smiled inwardly. "Are you sure? Is there nothing else I can do to help?"

The woman waved an elegant hand. "We achieved more than I expected today. It'll stand us in good stead for the weekend rush," she turned to me. "Tomorrow's your day off isn't it?"

"Yep," I nodded.

"And I'm away on a conference on Friday," she paused briefly. "Jennifer and her assistant will be picking up loose ends while I'm away," she eyed me succinctly, "so I see no real reason why you should have to wait around for a whole day. I think we'll pick up where we leave off on Saturday morning."

"Seriously?" I was startled. Thomas had an almost legendary reputation for abhorring absences.

Her dark eyes glittered with ill-concealed humour when she guessed the direction of my thoughts. "Yes Hannah, I am quite serious," her curious half-smile pulled at her lips again. "However, contrary to popular belief, I am quite capable of making jokes every once in a while. I'm not completely stoic."

I blushed. "I wasn't-"

She cut me off, a smile in her voice, "Just go Hannah."

...

My phone was vibrating in the bottom of my handbag when I reached my locker. Each time the daft thing pulsed, it produced a jangling, muffled rattle when it buzzed against my keys. I rooted around for a moment, batting away stray receipts and loose change in my search.

I had one new message. It was John.

_We lost. _

I had to wait several instances before I understood what he meant. I felt sick with the realisation. Sherlock had failed.

The poor, old woman was dead.

...

When I arrived the next morning, the sombre mood surrounding Baker Street was far from intangible. Even Mrs. Hudson's "good morning, dear," was muted. I climbed the stairs slowly with a heavy heart, hesitating on the threshold of John and Sherlock's flat. The pair were deep in conversation when I arrived. I loitered in the doorway, sensing the tension. A floorboard creaked under my weight and Sherlock's sharp gaze swivelled in my direction.

"What are you doing here?" He demanded, clashing with John's greeting.

The doctor shot his friend a dirty look; which was typically ignored. I shrank a little, hooking my hair nervously behind my ear, and took a cautious step into the room. For all intents and purposes, I was their friend, but pronouncing it didn't make the boundaries any clearer.

"If I'm interrupting, I'll just go?"

The detective rolled his eyes and looked away. "Please."

"Sherlock," John said reproachfully. He turned to me, "It's fine. Stay."

"I, uh, just came to see if you were okay," I said uncertainly. Sherlock fixed me with yet another bland expression. "You just lost the case so I figured you-"

"I didn't lose!"

I smothered the urge to step back, holding up my hands to ward off his aggression. The television dared to contradict him. I envied its courage.

"_The explosion, which ripped through several floors, killing twelve people, was caused by a faulty gas main."_

"He certainly gets about," John said quietly.

I had to agree with him; this bomber, whoever he was, definitely had access to his resources.

"Well, obviously I lost that round." Sherlock's tone was flippant. I didn't like it. Neither, it appeared, did John. "Although, technically I did solve the case," he directed the last part at me.

I simply narrowed my eyes and said nothing; I didn't need to. I might've agreed John's privacy, but I'd made no such promise to Sherlock. I could see the whole case, fleshed out in finite detail in his head. Although you wouldn't think it to look at him, he was already making connections.

"He killed the old lady because she started to describe him. Just once," he held up a finger, "he put himself in the firing line."

"What d'you mean?"

Oddly, Sherlock didn't jump down his throat. I guess he was too busy revelling in the bomber's brilliance to criticize. "Well, usually, he...must stay above it all. He organises these things but never has direct contact."

I surveyed Sherlock carefully as he spoke, monitoring the ebb and flow of his thoughts. He had a faraway look about him, which was hardly surprising given the intricate information he was juggling. I listened in as he began to amass a profile based on all the evidence he'd collected. Some of it I could follow, other parts, well, not so much.

"What, like the Connie Prince murder, he arranged that? So people come to him wanting their crimes fixed up, like booking a holiday?" John was more than a little incredulous.

"Novel," Sherlock breathed.

I looked back at him sharply. Okay, now I really didn't like it.

"Maybe this is what he wants?" I asked suddenly. Two pairs of eyes twisted in my direction. "The bomber, I mean. Sherlock, you're intrigued by this man. It's not good."

"And?" He arched a brow.

"And," I repeated slowly, "that's my point. He knows what you thrive on, how you work. Doesn't that worry you?"

He scoffed.

Evidently not.

I tried again. "I'm serious Sherlock. It's him that's calling the shots, not you. And you're sitting there all twitchy, waiting for his next move." I nodded towards the phone that was balanced on the armrest. "He's taking his time now because he knows he can."

I looked to John for help, but, for the first time since I'd met him, he failed me. The doctor coughed once and glanced down; he didn't know what to add. Sherlock too, said nothing. I flushed with embarrassment and began to study my hands intently. Inside, I was seriously contemplating bashing my head against a wall. Maybe that would knock some sense into me.

The frustrating thing was I knew I was right. I could read Sherlock as easily as I could read J.K Rowling. He was being played and to make matters worse, he was aware of it. The words "self preservation" sprung to mind but I guess, to some extent, I'd already learned he had none.

There was a long pause.

"So why's he doing this then?" John asked finally. "Playing this game with you. Do you think he wants to be caught?"

"I think he wants to be distracted." It there was again; that breathless tone that was the heart of the problem.

John and I shared a look; he at least, understood some of my worry. He gave a short, almost bitter, chuckle and stood up.

"I hope you'll be very happy together."

The sharp tone brought Sherlock from his revere. "Sorry, what?" He asked, equally as prickly.

John cracked. "There are lives at stake, Sherlock. Actual, human lives! Just so I know, do you care about that at all?"

Sherlock remained motionless, unblinking. "Will caring about them help save them?"

"Nope."

"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."

"And you find that easy, do you?"

"Yes, very," the detective lifted his chin defiantly. "Is that news to you?"

"No, no," John said, shaking his head with a bitter laugh.

I too, was receiving the same wake-up call as the doctor; neither of us had truly realised the extent of detachment Sherlock was capable of. Sherlock's sociopathic nature had finally asserted itself, in all its brusque glory. I wasn't entirely sure what to make of it. I stood back, watching. What else could I do? I was the outsider here.

There was silence for all but a heartbeat, but it honestly seemed like minutes. I wanted to clear off, but was too enrapt with the events unfolding in front of me to do so.

"I've disappointed you," Sherlock noted simply.

"That's good, that's a good deduction, yeah."

Sherlock eyeballed John briefly. "Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them." The words were frank and guileless; textbook behaviour for a sociopath.

Something passed between them in that long instance. Each held the other's eyes, steadfastly refusing to be the first to look away; arguments always have that same quality the world over, no matter the disagreement. Even their thoughts were closely guarded and checked.

I anchored myself, trying to let it all fade away. Along with my shoulder, my head started to ache a little. Although it was getting easier to keep Sherlock's thoughts from my head, I still had to devote a significant amount of energy to it. For the first time then, I detested my quirk; not only was I invading their home and intruding upon an argument, I was privy to any reflection that happened to slip through my barriers. What should've been private was not.

The pink phone bleeped, making me start nervously.

"Excellent." And with that tiny, little noise, in Sherlock's mind, the exchange was terminated; dismissed as a simple quarrel. "A view of the Thames. South Bank. Somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo. You check the papers, I'll look online."

I didn't know if the "you" encompassed both John and me, or just simply John. Neither of us moved.

Sherlock looked up, first noticing his friend's fixed stance and then mine. "If you have something to say, Spencer, then say it."

I met his eyes and spoke levelly, "Anything I could has already occurred to you."

...

I'd never been so close to the Thames before. The wind coming off the great, filthy river was spitefully cold; the kind that sweeps in between your neck and collar and chills you to the bone. The body had been placed on a rectangular, black plastic sheet, moved from where it'd originally washed up on the rocky bank. I glanced around uneasily at all the figures that were striding about purposefully, clothed in synthetic, blue suits and felt decidedly out of place. I, however, was about to happen across something all the more unpleasant.

Such was his respect for Sherlock, Lestrade didn't even bat an eyelash at my presence.

"Any ideas?"

"Seven," Sherlock admitted, "so far."

"Seven?" Lestrade's tone was incredulous.

He didn't reply and instead began to study the corpse up-close, kneeling and crouching to gather the evidence he required. He circled the body, his eyes and magnifying glass peeled for miniscule indicators and factors that would help him solve the case. Once again, I stubbornly remained outside of his head.

I already felt sick at the lack of, well, life coming from the dead man. That sounds like a really stupid comment, but to me, someone that's used to noise streaming even from a speechless person, the silence was unsettling. The body was an empty shell. Vacant.

John was standing a few paces behind his friend. I didn't need to read his thoughts to tell that he was still angry. Going by his expression, I imagined some of it was self-directed, likely for not expecting such a reaction. I watched him for a moment, wishing I could find something to say, just to show I understood. The words eluded me. Even if I could've come up with something, I felt it wasn't really my place. After all, we might've been friends, but the argument had been theirs.

I wondered if John knew that when Sherlock had sensed his disappointment, the tiniest part of the unapologetic detective's mind had felt sorry for earning his friend's disapproval. But by tiny, I mean seriously, seriously microscopic. Now Sherlock had already smothered and stamped on it, so by the time I'd come to my senses and seized it, the fleeting thought had all but passed. But it'd been there, I swear it.

My lips twitched in spite of the grim setting; perhaps there was hope?

John looked to Lestrade for approval before squatting beside the body. Unfazed, his eyes searched it clinically, drawing on his medical knowledge.

"He's dead about twenty-four hours. Maybe a bit longer. Did he drown?" John was asking confirmation for what he already knew.

"Apparently not," Lestrade said, clasping his hands behind his back. "Not enough of the Thames in his lungs, asphyxiated."

"Yes, I'd agree," John replied absently. He shuffled on his haunches, trying to get comfortable.

I looked away, not wishing to stare at the poor man anymore. A solitary figure, standing by the railing of the pier caught my eye. I studied the silhouette for a moment, trying to squint past the sun. Perhaps I was imagining it, but their face was too, I don't know...attentive to belong to a simple pedestrian. I tried to dismiss the foolish, paranoid thought, but it refused to be dispelled.

Casually, although nobody would ever guess what I was doing, I stretched my awareness so that the stranger's consciousness brushed my own. Unfortunately, they began to walk away at the same time and I struggled to get a good read on them. Just when I'd finally pinpointed their location, a particularly loud tendril from Sherlock's mind barged rudely into my own. Like a shatterproof ruler in the hands of an overzealous child, the connection snapped.

I scowled at Sherlock, but he was too involved with playing internet bloodhound to notice.

"He's been in the river a long while, the water's destroyed most of the data," he said finally, placing his mobile in his pocket. "But I'll tell you one thing, that lost Vermeer painting's a fake."

"What?"

"We need to identify the corpse, find out about his friends and-"

"Wait, wait, wait, wait. What painting? What are you on about?" Lestrade demanded.

Sherlock launched into an impatient, full-on explanation about what linked the two. Starting with the Golem and ending with the dead man's watch, he swept through all the evidence with practiced ease, pausing only to allow John and Lestrade time to process the information.

I'd like to be able to relay the conversation to you but something had happened in those precious few seconds that shook me to my core.

Partly out of a desire to look important and partly out of a need to comprehend what everybody else was seeing, I'd crouched down beside the body in the mud. I scanned it openly, adopting the same, businesslike manner as I'd seen John do only minutes earlier. My eyes lingered longest on the corpse's face, before skipping nervously over it. Going by the purplish bruises, I didn't doubt that he'd died violently. Pity welled inside me when I saw the wounds that'd been described. Having achieved what I'd intended, I dusted my knees off. But as I stood up, my fingers grazed the exposed skin of the dead man's wrist.

Overwhelming emotion slammed into me, unrestrained and unchecked.

Despair.

The very last emotion of the star-gazing security guard flooded into me; along with the knowledge that his goals would never be achieved, that he'd never see that rare eclipse. His personality, his history, his vices, all laid bare for me to see.

Human.

I was drowning in that final, wordless thought. That one feeling was so layered that I could understand this man as clearly as if he'd been my brother. Or so I imagined. He'd only wanted to watch the sky, to glimpse whatever fraction he could of the great beyond.

My God, his despair; his simple, heart wrenching despair.

Even now, it's difficult to separate what I innately knew from what was influenced by later knowledge. All I knew then however, was the crushing desolation and hopelessness that he'd felt in his last moments.

A tear slid down my cheek and I wiped it away with a trembling hand, not caring if anybody saw. Nobody did. They were all too caught up in their own conversations, too involved with their own problems. I wanted to shut my eyes, but couldn't summon the courage to look away; a coward. Nobody would mourn the death of a simply security officer. The world went on, stupid and cruel, as it always did.

As it always will, I amended bitterly.

And Sherlock stood there, rattling off facts and basking in his own cleverness, giving no thought to the man that'd died. I felt a flash of hot anger and wished more than anything I had the power to set him straight. This crime-solving, this deduction, wasn't a sport. People's feelings and their lives weren't just obstacles or factors that figured into motives. In truth, I wasn't angry; I was furious.

I glanced in his direction, observing him as he explained his theories to Lestrade. His face was animated and eager with the straightforward pleasures of logic. His gestures, usually so restrained by boredom and disinterest, were growing more dynamic. When a dark curl fell harmlessly in front of his face, my anger evaporated.

I couldn't be cross with him; he'd not done anything to warrant my fury, not really. He was...I don't know...he was just there, I suppose. There aren't any words to describe what I felt right then, or if there are, I haven't found them. Maybe I was frustrated by my own uselessness, at my pathetic inability to push past my reserves and say what I thought and needed to be said.

He was right though. If heroes existed, he most definitely would not be one of them.

Feeling hollow, I extracted my phone from my pocket and punched out a quick text.

_Go for a drink?_

_- Hannah_

I stared out across the Thames as I waited for a response. The reply was almost instantaneous.

_The Costa opposite the hotel. _

_See you in 15._

_- Matt_

* * *

**A/N:** I guess this would be a good time to warn you that I'll be dropping off the radar for a while, maybe 'til about June time? To be honest, I'd rather be writing, but I've got mega loads of GCSEs to sit and *le gasp* they'll be my priority.

You might just get one more chapter out of me before then though!

Anything you recognise from the script of the program is not mine.

As always, thank you to the following people for their support. Your support and advice, as always, rocked my socks: **Silvermoon of Forestclan**, **SpecialAgentZiva**,** lackadaisicallyours**, **restoringthehistory**, **kitsmits**, **DarknessDrought**, **blemished**, **bgm76**, **V** **EPSILON**, **Jfreak**, **SensiblyScrewy**, **SexyKnickers**, **adarnnya**, **E. Edwin**, **Noelle M**, **addy**, **Musicunderground** and **Ceville.**

**ChristyHolmes **deserves her own little line of appreciation for writing a "_Shannah_", as she coined it, one-shot, featuring London's resident telepath. Thanks for that!

Take care guys.


	13. Baby Steps

**Weighing His Words**

**Chapter Thirteen:**

"**Baby Steps."**

Needless to say, after my little sojourn with the emotions of a corpse, I was pretty shaken up.

I arrived at the coffee shop in dire need of a caffeine fix. If my sweaty, trembling hands were anything to go by, I needed a massive Americano, espresso or cup of something strong that would firmly bolster my resolve. I don't think an oversized blueberry muffin would have gone amiss either to be honest, but I digress.

I spotted Matt through the large window, sitting in the one of the low sofas at the back of the shop. Not that he would've known, but this was the very same place Sherlock and I had argued our manifestos. The way his legs were stretched out under the table reminded me of the detective and I had to shake my head to dispel the comparison. It was hardly fair, I reminded myself, to be thinking implicatively about the two of them when I'd agreed to a date with one.

I didn't feel ashamed of my text, strangely enough. And why should I, I decided. I was an almost twenty-six year-old with a degree she could do nothing with, who was currently in a dead end job and who just happened to be able to be able to read minds . Even social hermits have to get out sometimes.

Much to my dismay, Matt chose this moment to look up, catching me in the oh-so natural act of staring. A smile spread across his face as he lifted a hand in greeting. He waved me over, shoving his phone into the pocket of his slacks. They were his work clothes, I noted. Whoops.

As I pushed the door open, I automatically began to ward away the minds of others. As the specifics faded from my hearing, the natural buzz that was always present shrank to a level just above a low murmur. After living with it for three years, I no longer found the pitch distracting, but it was always easier to make conversation without getting sidetracked by a random anecdote from a passer-by.

"Hannah," he said simply. Like a gentleman, he stood to greet me; a quality that my mother, and all her chivalrous ideals, would have approved of.

I flashed him a warm smile. "I hope I'm not tearing you away from work."

"Not at all. When your text came through, I thought I'd take my break now as opposed to later. I can't be missing out on coffee with an attractive woman, now can I?"

Mercifully, my cheeks didn't heat. "I'm the best you've got, I'm afraid," I laughed.

"Well, to be honest, I'm pretty happy with the consolation prize," he said with an incorrigible grin.

Oh, my mistake – I found the blush.

"Did you want to another coffee?" I asked, hoping to cover my embarrassment. I nodded towards the already empty mug that sat on the table.

He looked slightly abashed. "Yeah, sorry about that. I was absolutely gagging for one."

"No harm done; I know how you feel. Strong black, yeah?"

"Yes, but you don't have to-"

"It's all good," I said firmly through I softened it with a smile. "I'll feel less of a caffeine addict if you're downing one too."

A few minutes later, I sank gratefully into the couch opposite, clutching the insanely large Americano as if it was a life ring and I, a drowning man. I took a couple of sips, appreciating the warmth of the rich, bitter liquid.

"So how's your shoulder?" He asked. "Any better?"

"Yeah, it's getting there. It's still a bit numb and I've got a lovely scar to match, but it's better than the alternative."

For a moment, I forgot myself and pulled the neck of my shirt away from my skin. I twisted my head to see it better. The skin around the exit wound was a good few shades darker than my natural skin tone and there was an underlying pinkish tinge to it. The scar itself was uneven and puckered, and there was the faintest white line where my stitches had been.

I was still vain enough that I'd been upset about how it'd look in sleeveless tops come summer; a petty, shameful thought, but one that was truthful nevertheless.

Matt gave a low whistle, "Ouch."

"It looks worse than it is," I shrugged, "but there's no hiding it. It's not exactly a pretty scar."

"What, as opposed to an appealing scar?"

I rolled my eyes in jest. "Yeah, Hollywood neglected to send me the pamphlet on 'How to scar attractively.'"

"You're kidding, right?"

"I know; it's terrible. I should complain," I said with a smile. This dry exchange was definitely flirting, after a fashion, and I found myself enjoying it. I drained the last of my coffee and set the mug down.

"You look like you needed that," Matt said seriously, but his eyes were sparkling with amusement.

I nodded fervently, "You've got no idea." I settled further into my seat. I crossed my legs the other way to get comfortable.

"It's only just after eleven. What've you been doing with yourself?"

"Actually, not much. I'm sorry about the abrupt text, by the way. I just couldn't stand the thought of holing myself up in my flat again. I'll end up conversing with inanimate objects if I'm not careful." My face was probably more haunted than I intended it to be.

Matt chuckled at my expression. "Well, aside from your obvious appreciation for a strong, black coffee – which is a refreshing surprise in a woman, I might add – you seem pretty regular to me. Why? What happened?" When I hesitated briefly, he took it as reluctance to share. "Oh, there's no pressure to tell me or anything."

"No, no - it's not that; a poor choice of words on my part there, I think. I, uh, mistakenly agreed to go to a crime scene. I don't think I'll be doing that again anytime soon..." I trailed off.

"Hannah?" He prodded gently.

I shook myself. "Sorry. There's not much to say really. A couple of friends of mine help the police out from time to time. Sherlock's sort of a freelance detective, if you like."

Something in Matt's thoughts twinged slightly. A pithy, but definite disturbance.

I felt myself frown slightly. "You know him?"

"Who? Sherlock? It's an unusual name; I've not come across it before. Why?" His face was the perfect picture of puzzlement.

"I just thought...never mind. I guess I've finally cracked," I sighed good-naturedly.

"Oh I don't know about that. You're not seeing things are you? No floating lights? No voices?" He teased.

"No," I grinned. "Definitely no floating lights." The voices on the other hand, that was a discussion for another time.

"Well, as luck would have it," he added, "there's a spot for a mentally sound woman at my table for two, tomorrow night. The Floating Lotus Chinese?"

I instantly understood what he was getting at and felt a rush of happiness at his unexpected offer.

"Then I'm your lady," I said simply, punctuating it with an outrageously uncharacteristic wink.

...

I walked quickly up the street to the grey brick home Lucy had shared with Westie. I'd only seen her briefly since her fiancé had died; something that I felt decidedly guilty about. I rapped on the door and took a step back, clicking my heels absently together as I waited.

Lucy answered almost immediately. I could hear her hopefulness even as she moved from the sofa. She was wishing fiercely for some more information, for some minute development; anything that would finally put to rest why her husband-to-be had died. Lucy knew that Westie hadn't stolen those plans, beyond a shadow of a doubt. But she hated it more that people might think otherwise. I knew where she was coming from. Had I been in her position, I would've felt exactly the same way.

"Hey Luce," I said quietly.

"Hannah." She smiled slightly when she saw me. I felt proud of her. Her eyes might've been red rimmed and her face pale, but her hair was freshly washed and she was up and moving. Good girl.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I? I thought I'd come by and see you."

"No, no, not at all," she said, stepping back and opening the door wider. "It'll be good to have some company."

I felt another small wave of guilt at her words. She led me into the living room and sat down. I followed suit. I wanted to say something but was at a loss as to what was acceptable. In a situation like this, what could possibly be adequate enough?

"Did you want a cup of tea or anything?"

"I've just had one, thanks," I refused politely. "But you stay there, I'll get you one."

"It's-"

"Not a problem," I finished smoothly, standing up. "White, two sugars?"

She nodded mutely and drew her legs up underneath her. I strode into the adjoining kitchen, flicking the kettle on as I went past. I took a mug from one of the cupboards and plopped a tea bag inside, pouring the water on when it'd finished boiling. I sourced the sugar and milk without hassle too. My eyes strayed to the dirty dishes by the sink. On second thoughts, I washed them up quickly while I waited for the tea to brew.

Satisfied that I'd tidied everything up, I went back to Lucy and handed her the cup.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome." I sat beside her on the settee. "Now, I'd originally brought you some chocolate digestives, but I'm afraid I haven't got them with me."

I'd left my handbag at 221B after deciding it wasn't the sort of thing you took to a police cordoned, murder site. I'd only grabbed my phone and purse as a reflex. Stupidly, I hadn't picked up my keys but that was a problem to be dealt with later.

She mouth quirked slightly. "Well imaginary biscuits aren't quite on the same level as a toothbrush but I'll let you off."

I wasn't simple enough to think that a simple packet of digestives could replace a husband but we'd often teased each other on the subject of the superior biscuit. The digestive was Lucy's champion; the ginger snap, mine.

I was quiet while she drank her tea, deciding that it was me who needed to broach the subject first. I could tell she needed to talk it out; it was written so plainly in her every move. Finally, I asked, "I know it's a stupid question, but how are you doing?"

"I don't know, Hannah," she said, balancing her cup on her knees. "Sometimes, I feel like I'm falling apart, others...I just can't quite believe it, you know?"

I bobbed my head in agreement. I didn't, but that wasn't what she needed to hear. Impulsively, I reached out and touched her arm briefly, allowing the mixed struggle that was her emotions to scroll across my mind. To try to understand was the least I could do. I read them quickly before replying, choosing my words carefully,

"You're conflicted, understandably. You get cross when somebody asks you if you're okay, because obviously you're not. You can't stand the pitying expressions people shoot you when you're looking at them, and hate how they act when you think you're not. And then, to top it all off, you feel guilty because essentially you're rejecting their compassion. It's just one big viscous cycle and that's not even the half of it."

When she looked at me with fresh tears in her eyes, I wondered instantly whether I'd taken too many liberties.

"Oh Hannah," she trailed off. She set her cup on the coffee table and gave me a hug. "Thank you," she whispered. "You've got no idea how much I needed to hear it like that."

I was relieved. For once, it seemed, I'd said the right thing. I patted her back gently, glad that I'd been able to make a difference. "Anytime Luce."

The doorbell rang suddenly and she wiped her eyes furiously to rid them of moisture. I got up to save her the trouble. "Don't worry, I'll get it."

My friend murmured her thanks. I walked down the cream painted hallway, pausing only to peer out of the small slit of a window that was built into the side of the door. The frosted effect made it impossible to see so I flipped the latch down and tugged it open. I was surprised to see John standing on the doorstep.

"Hiya."

"Hannah?" He blinked. Evidently the surprise was mutual. "What are you doing here?"

"Lucy's my friend, remember? I came by to see how she was doing."

He sobered. "Oh yes, of course."

Now dry eyed, Lucy emerged from the lounge. "Who is it?"

I went to reply but he beat me to it. "John Watson," he presented his hand and she shook it. "I'm part of the team that's investigating your fiancé's death."

"Oh, please, come in."

I stepped aside to let him in and closed the door gently behind him, following them back into the sitting room. Seen as John had taken my seat next to Lucy, I sat on the other settee.

"Do you two know each other?" She asked, sensing the familiarity between us.

"For a couple of months, yeah." I allowed myself a private smile; it certainly felt like longer. When I noticed that John was thinking the same thing too, I mentally kicked myself. Having recalled and reminded myself of my earlier promise, I dropped his thoughts at once. "John's a friend of mine," I added.

She took a deep breath and folded her hands in her lap. "We might as well get started then," she looked uncertainly to John.

"I can leave you alone, if you'd like," I offered, not sure what she wanted to do. I might've known him, but Lucy didn't. I didn't know whether she wanted to be on her own for this.

"No, you don't have to. Please, stay."

I relaxed in my seat silently, sitting back to let John get on with it. The Partington plans and my subsequent promise of assistance had been all but forgotten in the excitement of the bomber and his pips. I guessed John was going through the motions simply to appease Mycroft. But while I knew John would be gentle, I hoped Mycroft's satisfaction wasn't going to exact a price.

"Some important Government plans went missing around the time your finance died. I'm afraid his bosses have-"

"He wouldn't. He just wouldn't," she said firmly.

I could hear a faint note of hysteria in her voice and John's slightly panicked look told me he'd noticed the same. "Well stranger things have happened," he said eventually.

"Westie wasn't a traitor," she said, shaking her head obstinately. "That's a horrible thing to say!"

"I'm sorry," John apologised quickly, "but you must understand-"

"That's what they think, isn't it, his bosses?"

I'd been watching them so when John looked to me, I knew to step in. "John's not accusing Westie of anything," I soothed. "But think what it looks like to them Luce. The big cheeses in Head Office didn't know him like you did."

John nodded his agreement, eyeballing me gratefully. "That's right. But he was a young man, about to get married, he had debts."

Lucy was getting really upset now. "Everyone's got debts and Westie wouldn't want to clear them by selling out his country."

"I know Luce," I said quietly, meeting her stare unflinchingly. "I know."

That at least, provided her with a measure of comfort. She squared her shoulders and turned back to John, gesturing for him to continue.

My heart went out to her; she'd become a widow before a bride.

"Can you, erm...? Can you tell me exactly what happened that night?"

"We were having a night in. Just...watching a DVD."

I could see it in Lucy's head as she described it: the two of them, curled up on the sofa. I tried my best to block the image as soon as it appeared, but it was too firmly rooted in her thoughts for me to shake it off.

"He normally falls asleep, you know, but he sat through this one. He was...quiet. Out of the blue he said he just had to go and see someone."

"And you've no idea who?" John prompted gently.

Lucy jerked her head shakily and covered her face with her hands.

I moved to her side and rubbed her arm. "We'll sort it Lucy," I promised firmly. "There are people on the case, good people. We'll find out what happened."

She nodded tightly and stood up. John followed suit, heading for the door. There was nothing more we could gain. I knew that my friend just really wanted to be alone. I could give her that much. I scooped up the empty mug and took it back into the kitchen, washing it up quickly and replaced it. As a quick afterthought, I scribbled my home number on the pad of paper that was by the toaster. My mobile wasn't always on.

When I joined them, another man was standing in the doorway; Lucy's brother, I remembered. I couldn't recall his name; I'd only met him once. I smiled at him before turning on the threshold and adding, "If you need anything: a coffee, a chat or a silly errand doing, just give us a buzz, okay?"

She shot me a grateful smile that I reciprocated. As I stepped out to stand beside John, my elbow brushed her brother's arm.

"Sorry," I apologised quickly.

He hummed in acknowledgement and went on inside after giving Lucy's shoulder a quick, comforting squeeze. She followed, shutting the door quietly behind them. There was an odd sort of finality to it. I frowned.

"Something the matter?" John asked, noting my expression.

"I could've sworn..."

The contact had been too brief for me to decipher the peculiar feeling that'd come my way. It'd almost been like...shame or embarrassment, maybe? I shivered with the cold, pushing the thought to the back of my mind. It wasn't important. I shook my head.

"Where to then?" I asked, wrapping my coat around my body.

"Baker Street, I reckon. Sherlock will probably want us to regroup."

I nodded; I'd expected as much. I'd already been preparing myself to recommence orbiting planet Crazy. Now I think I understood what John meant when he said he couldn't stop. It was enticing, this world of Sherlock's, I'd give it that.

John shot me a sideways glance before adding thoughtfully, "Where did you go this morning? You were gone even before I'd even turned around."

"I had some things to take care of," I replied evasively.

...

When the cab pulled up outside Baker Street, Sherlock was already waiting for us. He didn't seem surprised at my being there and even deigned to give me a brief nod by way of greeting. Baby steps. I hoped this progression into friendship wasn't going to turn into one of those 'two paces forward, one pace back' scenarios.

"Hold the cab," he ordered when I started to climb out. I obeyed wordlessly and I slid over to the other seat so John and Sherlock could get in easily. I apologised to the driver for the delay.

"It's all the same to me love," the cabbie replied pleasantly. He tapped an idle tune against the steering wheel as he waited and leaned forward to turn the radio's volume dial up a notch.

I hid a smile as he started bobbing his head in time to the music and looked out of the window. Sherlock had approached and was conversing with a homeless woman. If I'd figured he was up to something before, my suspicions were confirmed when she handed him a note. He unfolded it, glanced at it momentarily and then placed it in his pocket. Turning on his heel, he ducked in the cab with John close behind him.

The drive to our destination (Vauxhall Arches, as it turned out) wasn't long, but it was made more arduous by London's infamous congestion. I rested my head on the back of the seat. I hoped to relieve my neck-ache by taking the weight off it; I'd slept funny the night before and the day's somewhat taxing activity was finally making itself known.

"How is your friend?" Sherlock asked unexpectedly, breaking the companionable hush.

I twisted to face him. "She's holding up remarkably well, all things considered," I said slowly. If I'd been puzzled by the question, I was even more confused when he fell silent with a brief nod and looked away again. I glanced at John for an explanation but the doctor was too occupied with the passing nightscape.

The taxi dropped us of at the requested address, but in truth it wasn't really much of one. The wide alleyway was strewn with puddles despite that it hadn't rained in several days. There was little light. Although we weren't even enclosed yet, the dark made it seem all the more formidable. It certainly wasn't a place I'd walk alone, even in the daylight.

I shivered into my coat, deciding that I was extremely envious of Sherlock's leather gloves.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" He remarked suddenly, indicating the clear, star filled sky.

The security guard would've loved it, I noted darkly when I followed his gaze.

John was surprised. "I thought you didn't care about-"

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it," Sherlock said simply.

I was mildly surprised, to say the least. Poetically inclined? Sherlock? John and I shared a look.

"Oh, don't do that," the detective scowled irritably, breaking the spell.

John rolled his eyes and I shrugged amusedly, falling into step beside them.

"Nice. Nice part of town," John said drily, grimacing as he stepped in a particularly deep puddle.

Sherlock ignored the comment. Clearly he was unbothered by the dank and instead led us confidently to a side tunnel. I peered into the gloom, catching sight of a flickering, orange light somewhere at the end of it.

I cleared my throat. "And we're here why?"

"Homeless network," Sherlock replied. "Really is indispensible."

"Homeless network?"

"My eyes and ears all over the city." He sounded oddly proud of himself.

I couldn't for the life of me understand what information a homeless person would be subject to, but I supposed that might in fact be the point.

John and Sherlock produced torches from their pockets and flicked them on, sending out two strong beams to light our way. Obviously they'd forgotten to pass on the memo. I made the wise decision to stay close, not at all eager to lose myself in the cavernous intestines of the arches.

We walked slowly into the opening, John and Sherlock casting their torches over the annexe. If it were at all possible, it was colder in here than it'd been out in the open. Perhaps it was something to do with all the concrete. I looked around, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. I could make out silhouettes, human silhouettes, pressed close to the walls. Each shadowed lump was surrounded by their personal effects; everything they owned, I realised belatedly.

The dynamic duo pushed on cautiously, satisfied with their assessment of the room. When I went to follow, a small design on the brickwork next to me caught my attention. Being the location it was, it was hardly surprising that graffiti littered the walls. But something about this tag was different. The semi-luminescent paint came up a vivid yellow, pitted as it was against the gloom. I stooped closer, determined to place the familiarity.

It didn't take long. The pattern was distinctly similar to the Hang Zhou symbols Sherlock and John had come across during their run in with The Black Lotus. My blood would've run colder had I not already been freezing. I drew my phone from my pocket and hurriedly snapped a picture. It wasn't the greatest quality considering the light, but it'd do.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed suddenly in hushed tones.

"Come on!" He gestured furiously for John and me to join him.

I shoved my mobile away, the symbol, for the moment, forgotten. A profile was thrown up on the far wall, too large to simply have been distorted. This was no mere trick of the light. I pressed myself up against the bricks alongside my friends.

"What's he doing down here?" I whispered.

"Well, he has a very distinctive look. He has to hide somewhere. Where tongues won't wag...much," he said like it was the simplest concept in the world.

"Oh sh..." John cursed. "I wish I'd brought my-"

"Don't mention it," Sherlock said, calmly palming him a gun.

I'm very proud of the fact my jaw didn't drop.

I could hear someone's thoughts, broadcast loud and clear. But I had no hope in deciphering them; I couldn't even identify the language. I reckoned if I tried however, I could read him enough get a general impression of his intent and-

"Sherlock," I muttered warningly, "he's going to-"

There was a sudden rush of footsteps. Sherlock peeled himself from the wall and sprinted after him, with not a thought to his safety. John and I followed immediately, John making sure he was a few paces ahead of me, bless him. I heard the squeal of tires before I saw the car and wheeled around to see the vehicle speeding off into the night.

"No! No! No! No!" Sherlock moaned, circling frustratedly. "It'll take us weeks to find him again."

John stopped dead in his tracks, rubbing the back of his head in thought. "Or not. I have an idea where he might be going."

"What?"

"I told you. Someone left Alex Woodbridge a message. There can't be that-"

But I'd managed to glean something from the Golem's mind; simply a vague impression, but enough to go by. An image.

"The planetarium."

* * *

**A/N: **Surprise! – Only 'coz it's majorly fun and I love you. My goodness, let me tell you, right now I want nothing more to sit down and see this ugly thing right through to its end! Thanks a bunch reality... Oh yeah, if it's brilliant and you recognise it from the show, it's most definitely not mine. ;)

Thank you so much for all the good lucks and I wish anybody sitting any exams my best wishes in return.

Shout outs: **Silvermoon of Forestclan**, **purpleflames**, **Musicunderground**, **restoringthehistory**, **XMillieX**, **DarknessDrought**, **ChristyCullen101, SensiblyScrewy**, **barus, bgm76, bbmcowgirl**, **kitsmits, Noelle M **and of course **KeepCounting. **


	14. Joining the Circus

**Weighing His Words**

**Chapter Fourteen:**

"**Joining the Circus."**

Sherlock flung himself out of the cab and hit the curb running, John and I hot on his heels. Together we sprinted towards the entrance, skidding to a halt just in front of the heavy double doors. Sherlock rattled the handle vigorously, groaning in frustration when it refused to budge.

"The back!"

John and I complied but Sherlock was quicker. By the time we'd reached the door he was already inside. As we scrambled to join him, John drew his gun and held it with professional ease, plunging into the waiting darkness. I didn't think; I just followed.

I sensed rather than heard her panicked struggle. A petrified swell of terror rolled off her mind and slammed into my own, leaving my head reeling with the force. But where was she? With the lights dimmed, it was almost impossible to see. A projection was playing in the background and the flickering images provided haunting intervals of light, but anything more than a few paces ahead was a mystery.

The impassive voiceover continued regardless, the extra noise only adding to the chaos. The light level changed unexpectedly and I could make out a profile; the same shape I'd seen not fifteen minutes ago. The shadow had the woman encased in his stalwart grip and was slowly squeezing his palms together, with the intention of suffocating her and crushing her skull.

"Golem!" Sherlock yelled.

The giant glanced up then, the pathetic light allowing me only a brief glimpse of the whites of his eyes. His shadow was monstrously distended upon the wall behind him, solid black. The wraith jerked his hands swiftly and both the mental and voiced shrieks of his victim fell abruptly silent.

The lights went out.

John immediately jolted into action, "Damn it! I can't see him. I'll go round." He peeled off to the side, firearm primed and ready.

"Who are you working for this time, Dzundza?" The challenge in Sherlock's voice was plain.

Offhandedly, I couldn't help thinking it was perhaps a poor choice of pitch, but I didn't allow myself to dwell on it. I too had bolted, but in the opposite direction, hurling myself towards what I assumed was the control panel. If I could just get the lights on, we would see him coming. I swallowed as I stepped over the still-warm body of the professor, resolving to deal with compassion later. Sweeping a frantic stare over all the dials and sliders, I set to work flipping them this way and that, trying to improve our vision. Nothing made any difference.

"Shit!" Of their own accord, my eyes kept flickering between the switchboard and my friends. Resolutely hauling my gaze downward, I mashed the switches frenetically but still there was no change. Nothing I did was of any use – the bloody thing was broken.

There was a muffled groan and I glanced up to see Sherlock struggling against the bulk of the Golem. My heart leapt into my mouth as I saw the Czech's hands close around his neck; a death dealing grip. His name died on my lips. As much as my brain was screaming at me to help him, my body would not obey the commands that were sent to it. I watched helplessly in dumbfounded horror as Sherlock struggled furiously against the hold. Somehow, even over the clamour, I could hear him toil and scrounge for breath as his body was slowly starved of oxygen.

"No!" The desperate cry tore free of my throat but it was smothered by the orchestral cacophony.

Suddenly John was there, his thoughts a dead calm amidst the commotion. He cocked and aimed his gun with a steady hand, raising it unblinkingly. I saw the movement of his jaw but the low, intense words didn't reach my ears. His composure gave my scattered mind something to copy and I gradually, reluctantly let go of my panic. John would handle it. I could help him by giving him his sight back.

The lights on the console were no longer flashing intermittently and I hadn't the faintest idea what that meant. I looked over it again, this time more calmly. I spotted the problem; the mains lead was missing. I scanned the small podium but couldn't see anything vaguely resembling a cable. Dropping to all fours, I patted the ground around me in the vain hope I could locate the wire. The tape spooled violently and my head snapped up at the unexpected sound, breaking my concentration.

John was sprawled across the Golem's back, his arms locked unforgivingly tight around the murder's neck. His mount thrashed beneath him and staggered back and forth across the platform, wheeling erratically in an attempt to dislodge the ex-soldier. I looked on in fascinated dismay as the Czech giant broke his hold and slammed him to the floor. In one jerky movement, the man stooped down and hurled John roughly away. The doctor slid across the smooth surface of the stage, disappearing from view.

When the projection stuck briefly, I saw what I was looking for. I lunged for the lead and seized it, and scrambling to my feet, I jammed it hastily into the slot. The circuits went haywire, the result of my fevered meddling, causing the recording to furl out of control. I'd only made things worse, not better.

Several loud cracks shattered the haze of my despair. The gangling phantom disentangled himself from the two men on the floor and raced for the rows of seating, ducking the bullets that were fired at him. He vaulted over the backs and cleared them with little trouble. With all the flashing lights and dissonant racket, by the time I realised what was happening, the Golem was upon me.

The long digits closed painfully tight around my exposed neck and mouth, pressing relentlessly into the soft flesh. The unremitting grasp cut off my air supply and I thrashed and floundered uselessly in his hold. The bullet wound on my shoulder flared in agony when the muscles were pulled taut when he wrenched me back. However, that pain was largely ignored; my panic having morphed into terror as I struggled to drag air into my chest. I was vaguely aware of being dragged backwards.

My throat was being crushed at such an angle that I felt his nails break the surface of my skin. I fought for breath, twisting instinctively in the futile desire for freedom. Weakness was coursing through me at an alarming rate and when I redoubled my efforts it made barely any difference. Black spots started to appear in my already blinkered vision and I writhed harder – or tired to - almost convulsing, fighting my end.

I did not want to die.

When the Golem's hold abruptly released, I slumped forcibly to the floor. Air rushed into my starved passageways, flooding my lungs with oxygen. I coughed, gagged and spluttered in equal measures as I tried to replace what I'd lost. I gulped in long, ragged breaths as I tried to right my breathing and whimpered faintly with the effort. It was a herculean feat to haul myself to my knees, but, still gasping, I finally managed it. I pressed a tremulous, almost hysterical hand to my throat, affirming that the choke-hold was truly gone.

Never, as long as I lived, did I want to experience something remotely like that again.

I fought down my panic, telling myself again and again that it was over. Not even when I'd taken the bullet had I been so defenceless. At least then there'd been more of an element of shock to act as a shield. Now, I had nothing. I shook my head fiercely, denying the invisible grip I could still feel on my neck. My breaths rattled emptily inside my chest as fright conquered logic.

"Hannah?"

I blinked away the last of the blindness to see Sherlock crouched directly in front of where I was slumped near the wall. Close. With a breathless, half-sob, I leaned into him, resting my forehead on his steady shoulder. He went very still but made no move to rid himself of the contact. Composed, unyielding, calm. We remained like that for a protracted several minutes, Sherlock motionless beneath me as I borrowed his support. Even just the generic hum of his thoughts was indescribably comforting; the tidal echo easy to lose myself in.

When my breathing had gained some semblance of rhythm, I drew back. His face was indecipherable, made unreadable by both the terrible lighting and his peculiar, almost pained countenance. If I'd had more energy left, I would've been mortified by my familiarity.

John appeared behind Sherlock's head, looking more worse-for-wear than usual. "Are you alright?"

It took a good few tries before I could force the words out. "I'm...just a bit...speechless," I wheezed finally. My voice was faint - barely audible - and the words were scratchy, caching on every syllable. It hurt.

Sherlock stood up briskly and John stepped forward, offering me a hand. When I took it, he pulled me up gently, making sure I was steady on my feet before he let go. I think I managed a feeble smile of thanks.

John cricked his neck, passing a hand over the aching muscles, before adding on a dry groan, "Anyone else not joining the circus?"

...

It turned out the invitation Thomas had got in the post – the one supposedly from our resident bomber – had invited her to the very event we were now crashing. Sherlock stalked into a side gallery, brushing past a bemused Lestrade, and took one look at all the elegantly dressed guests that were obscuring the painting in question.

After smoothing down his jacket, he drew himself up and cleared his throat purposefully. "Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen." His voice rang clearly over the stream of chatter and the crowd fell silent. "I am very sorry to interrupt your evening but we are encountering an unfortunate, minor problem. I would be most appreciative if you would step into the main atrium while we rectify the situation." He smiled charmingly at his audience, "At this current time, my colleagues are on hand to alleviate any concerns and answer any questions you might have. I thank you for your cooperation."

John shot me a mystified look, asking with both his thoughts as well as his expression if I knew what he was up to. I turned my attention briefly to the inside of Sherlock's head but shrugged my cluelessness when an answer didn't present itself; he wasn't thinking specifically about it so I couldn't pluck it out.

"And what exactly is this problem?" Asked the well-dressed gentleman who was stood nearest Sherlock.

Sherlock twisted to face the man, putting on an apologetic but professional facade. "It is but a small matter concerning the security of the building," he replied smoothly, "But I assure you sir, the Lost Vermeer shall indeed remain discovered."

The man and a few others nearby let out small, dignified chuckles and obeyed his request, making their way towards the exit. Sherlock monitored their retreat with his charismatic smile still in place and when final person was out, he shut the door firmly behind them. He pivoted on his heel and strode over to the now unobstructed painting, his regular demeanour back in place. Apparently he was through with channelling his inner Mycroft.

He ignored all our puzzled stares and leaned in to inspect the paining, producing his mobile from his pocket.

"Uh, Sherlock?" John said tentatively, nodding towards the official looking woman who was pacing angrily towards us.

"You again," she said disgustedly, her accent shaping the words harshly. "What on earth are you-"

"It's a fake," he interrupted. "It has to be."

She blinked, jerking her head back indignantly. "That painting has been subjected to every test known to science."

"It's a very good fake then," he said irritably. He looked up from his phone and turned around sharply. "You know about this, don't you? This is you, isn't it?"

A condemning thought flashed across her mind, a glowing beacon of guilt. She faced Lestrade with a sneer plastered across her face. "Inspector, my time is being wasted. Would you mind showing yourself and your friends," she uttered the word with evident distaste, "out."

The pink phone rang unexpectedly, making us all start. Sherlock accepted the call immediately. "The painting is a fake." There was no acknowledgement. He tried a second time, shooting a hard look in the direction of the museum director, "It's a fake, that's why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed."

Again there was no response. My eyes flickered to Sherlock's face as he realised the reason. He had to specify why.

"Oh, come on, proving it's just a detail. The painting is a fake. I've solved it, I've figured it out." He was growing increasingly more intent as he spoke. "It's a fake, that's the answer, that's why they were killed." He practically growled the words at the receiver,

Breathing was the only sound that came from the other end. Hitching breaths; uneven and terrified, like mine had been not too long ago.

I barely dared to breathe myself. I snuck a quick glance at John and Lestrade; they were holding themselves in pretty much the same way.

Sherlock tiled his head to the ceiling and closed his eyes for the briefest of moments. Thoughts were flying about his mind but he schooled them masterfully, dismissing anxiety as an inferior emotion. I was mollified slightly to know he was at least aware of the life on the line, but couldn't help be startled at the inhuman detachment with which he set empathy aside. When he opened his eyes again, he was calm.

"Okay, I'll prove it. Give me time. Will you give me time?"

The only answer was a number. "_Ten_."

It was a child – a boy – strapped to that bomb. The faceless, spineless bastard had raised the stakes phenomenally high.

"Oh my God," I breathed, lifting a hand to my mouth.

"It's a kid. Oh God, it's a kid." Lestrade's thought volume rattled up at the revelation but I let it fall away, latching in horrified rapture onto Sherlock's thoughts.

He sprang into action, wheeling around to face the painting. "Time. Time. He's giving me time." Facts started whipping around his mind, ricocheting back and forth as he conceived and rejected theories at a dizzying speed.

"Jesus."

"It's a fake, but how can I prove it?" His method was too controlled to be frantic but there was a desperate quality to his manner. "How? How?"

"_Eight_."

He veered around and spat at the director, "This kid will die. Tell me why the painting is a fake. Tell me!"

She recoiled at the unchecked aggression filling his voice.

Despite his best efforts, Sherlock's genuine concern, unusually and uncharacteristically deep, peppered his thoughts. Although nobody but me would ever know it, he was finding it difficult to maintain the emotional detachment.

"_Seven_."

"No, shut up. Don't say anything. It only works if I figure it out."

Beside me, John looked away, physically unable to watch. I too would've turned my back had I not been so rooted inside Sherlock's mind.

He spun back to the Vermeer, scrutinising the canvas furiously. Facts, figures and connections scrolled across my consciousness at unbelievable speed. His eyes – my eyes? – darted back and forth, urged on by the pressing threat.

"It must be possible. It must be staring me in the face. Woodbridge knew, but how!"

"_Five_."

"It's speeding up!"

"Sherlock!"

The deductions beat violently against me, cocooning me within a mental storm. There was no pain, only pace, for I was at the eye of the silent hurricane. Together our mind took in brush patterns, styles, colour graduations and composition, yet found nothing at fault. Influence, theme, muse. We steepled our fingers and pressed them to our face, devoting all our energy to the deadly enigma.

"_Four."_

Fading, shape, construction, dimension.

Supernova.

Our gaze snapped swiftly up, the realisation a thick, golden strand before our eyes. It was so simple. "In the Planetarium, you heard it too. Oh that is brilliant, that is gorgeous." We pressed the phone into John's hands and rummaged in our pockets for our own, striding away from the group. Buoyant with the sudden comprehension, we basked in the vividness, the glory of the effortless truth.

"_Three_."

"What's brilliant? What is?"

We didn't hear them, too wrapped up in the brilliance of the logic; our logic. This constant analysis, this challenge, was what we lived for. It was our capacity as well as our joy and nobody could touch us. We were limitless.

"This is beautiful. Oh, I love this."

I?

Our minds suddenly diverged at the pronoun. I slammed back into my body, right back into the mundane and the commonplace. There was no vibrancy, no power here. I'd learnt to run but I had to walk. I swayed with the shock, my head struggling to manage the split-second switch of perception.

"The Van Buren Supernova," Sherlock announced.

The whole room waited breathlessly, poised on the knife-edge of the final number.

"_Please, is somebody there? Somebody help me."_

Beside me, John hung his head in relief.

"There you go. Go and find out where he is and pick him up." Sherlock handed the mobile to Lestrade, who immediately hurried off to call in the cavalry.

I rubbed my palms over my face, squeezing my eyes tight shut to manage the vertigo. Out of the three, my neck, shoulders and head, I honestly couldn't say what was hurting more.

"Van Buren Supernova, so called," Sherlock indicted the painting, only a little out of sorts. He was blissfully unaware of what had just happened. "An exploding star, it only appeared in the sky in 1858."

The remnant of the extraordinary fusion was still singing through my head. I might've been back in my own body but I could still hear his noiseless reflections, feel them flickering at the edge of my restraint. I had trouble looking at him, already finding it immeasurably difficult to divide and maintain our separate thought.

"Clever stuff," I said faintly, scarcely aware that I was speaking aloud.

Sherlock inclined his head in succinct acknowledgement. His light eyes, shining with triumph, skimmed over my face for the barest of moments. He left then, striding wordlessly towards the door.

John rocked back on his heels, almost as short for breath as I was, and peered into the unassuming image. "So how could it have been...painted in the 1640s?" His message alert sounded and his fished his mobile from his pocket, regarding it briefly before he put it away. "Oh, Sherlock," he sighed and moved hurriedly to follow his friend outside.

Nobody but the director was left. I moved forward, outstretching a hand to lightly trail my fingers across the modest canvas. The paint was raised and uneven beneath my touch. It felt real.

"Clever stuff," I whispered again, "Very clever stuff."

...

As it so often does when you need it most, sleep eluded me that night. I wrestled with both the duvet and pillows, trying to get comfortable. After four sleepless hours, I tossed the sheets back disgustedly and dragged myself into the bathroom. Leaning over the sink, I turned on the tap, dousing my face with cool water. I smeared the droplets into my eyes in the hopes of relieving the burning tiredness that had amassed there.

When I straightened, I caught my reflection in the mirror above the basin. Ashen-skinned and glassy-eyed, with two smudges under my eyes that rivalled the dark side of the moon in terms of blackness, I was a wreck. I twisted to the side and pulled my hair away from my shoulder so I could examine the damage the Golem had wrought. It wasn't pretty. Already there was a row of uneven, fingerprint bruises smattered along either side of my throat. I shuddered and shook off the ghostly sensation of crushing.

Tilted my head again and going in for a second look, I decided that a turtleneck was probably the safest way forward. I yelped in surprise when I accidently fingered one particularly smoky smudge and automatically moved back from the mirror. I froze and blinked in wide-eyed surprise at my reflection.

Then I laughed weakly; I couldn't help it. It was two o'clock in the morning and I there I was, gazing stupidly at myself, wondering why a bruise hurt when I prodded it.

"You'll be alright Hannah," I said quietly. "You always are."

Voicing the words thrust them into reality. I turned my back firmly on the image and tugged my dressing gown from its hook on the back of the door. Pulling it on, I padded soundlessly in the direction of the living room. I sank appreciatively onto the sofa and grabbed the throw off the back, tucking my feet underneath me. I smoothed the blanket over my knees, idly admiring the soft, fluffy heap of material that'd been a Christmas present from my mum. I reached for the remote. The psychic shows were usually aired at this time and I'd found they made for particularly light watching. The faked antics were mildly amusing if nothing else.

The Yellow Pages I'd brought away from my encounter at The Lucky Cat was sitting innocuously on the coffee table, right next to my mobile. I paused for a moment before passing up the remote in favour of the phone book. Setting it in my lap, I clicked through to my files, remembering the photo I'd taken at Vauxhall Arches. When it loaded, I crosschecked the symbol against the notes Sherlock had made on Hang Zhou for the 'Blind Banker' case.

Was it a four or a six? A five or an eight? I squinted at the numerals for over forty minutes but my mind was simply too Western to comprehend the exotic, intricate lines and curves. I gnawed the end of my pen in frustration. It was gone quarter to three and mercifully, despite the intellectual workout, my mind seemed a little more settled. I could deal with this in the daylight.

When I bent forwards to put the things on the table, the beaten directory slipped off my lap, falling to the floor. With a hint of reluctance, I extracted myself from the warmth of the throw and tossed it casually onto the seat, stooping to pick up the book. As I flipped it shut, something on the inside back cover caught my attention; black permanent marker.

The very figures I'd been trying to decipher were inscribed there. But more importantly, directly beneath them, in bold, slanted print was the translation:

Moriarty.

* * *

**A/N: **And we're back! *fist pump* I hope you've been keeping well and that school/work/love/friends/etc hasn't been too unkind to you. If it has, know that one fickle author is out there wishing it gets better for you soon.

I've also made a note regarding the recent editing overhaul, if you like, of this fic. The changes are kinda important but not an Olympian scale or anything. For more info, click through to my profile and all shall be explained.

Shout-outs to the following people for leaving me a note: **Musicunderground, Silvermoon of Forestclan, ChristyHolmes, LadyRaylen, SexyKnickers, kitsmits, Noelle M, SensiblyScrewy, bgm76, 88dragon06, DarknessDrought, Alycee Lanet **and **SummerParamour**! Your support is endlessly awesome!


	15. Nothings and NonEvents

**Weighing His Words**

**Chapter Fifteen:**

"**Nothings and Non-Events"**

"Ah, maybe not," John said, rapping for the third time on the window of the booth.

I leaned over and craned my neck, peering through the decade-thick grime on the Plexiglas. "Nope," I agreed, "there's definitely no one in there." I turned back to him, "What now then?"

John deliberated for a moment, tugging up his sleeve to glance at his watch. "Well, it's only just gone eight. If no one's here, I reckon the workers are probably still on the lines."

I bobbed my head. It made sense. "We could go back to Baker Street?" I suggested with a shrug. "Although, I don't see much point in traipsing halfway across London, only to come back later."

"A waste of a fare," he nodded. "Mind you, I don't fancy standing around here with trains rattling past every eight minutes. Besides, I'm thinking a cup of tea and something to eat wouldn't go amiss while we hang about."

"I thought I sensed some ulterior motives," I grinned, arching an eyebrow. "I take it he ushered you out the flat?"

John rubbed his neck, slightly embarrassed. "Of a sorts. You know when he does that thing where he makes some comment that gets you to do something, and you do it thinking it was your idea but it was really his?"

I smiled ruefully, knowing exactly where the doctor was coming from. "Yeah, I'm familiar with it; Mycroft does it too." I twisted thoughtfully to look back where we came from, "This is London; you can't throw a rock without hitting some form of caf. There must be one round here somewhere."

"Mm-hm. We walked past it earlier."

I spread my hands in mock defeat; who was I to argue with a hungry man? "Caffeine and toast it is then. Lead the way."

There were only two other patrons inside the nearby cafe, surprising considering the breakfast hour but expected given the nondescript location of the place. A grizzled plumber, who was currently nursing both a steaming mug and a forlorn expression, had claimed a table along the far wall. The second customer, a mousy looking woman, was seated in the centre, toying with a barely touched plate of bacon and eggs.

John picked his way through the vacant tables, settling on a spot towards the back of the shop. I followed him obediently, stepping carefully after nearly going my length on an uneven floor tile. A quick, casual glance around me confirmed nobody had noticed my graceless lapse of attention. A teenage girl, with long red hair that was scraped back in a ponytail, appeared almost as soon as we sat down. I smiled at her, taking in her light, harmless thoughts and friendly persona. She'd only been on the job for a few weeks, hence the enthusiasm.

"What can I get for you guys?" She said cheerfully, brandishing a notepad and pencil.

I scanned the chalkboard that was nailed behind the counter while she waited expectantly. "Can I have a strong black coffee and a slice of toast please?"

She nodded, turning to John. "And for you?"

There was no hesitation on his part. "Tea and a bacon sandwich for me, thanks."

She scribbled both orders down before tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "Alrighty then, if there's nothing else, that'll be eight twenty please."

I dug in my pocket for my purse but John stopped me. "I've got this one. Besides, Sherlock and I must owe you a small mint in cab fares."

"Are you sure?" When he bowed his head, I extracted my hand. "Thanks."

"I'll get you guys ketchup and stuff. Your food'll only be a few minutes." She turned to me, wiggling her pencil eagerly, "Did you want any jam? There's only strawberry though, I'm afraid."

"No thanks, just butter'll be great."

"Sure. I'll be back in a sec." She flitted off to give our order to the cook.

John looked at me quizzically, a slight frown on his face. "What kind of person doesn't like jam?"

Upon hearing the note of incredulousness in his voice, the corners of my mouth tugged into a smile. "This one apparently. And it's not all jams, just the strawberry flavoured stuff."

He snorted at that. "How is it 'strawberry flavoured?' It's made of strawberries."

"Details, details," I waved a dismissive hand. "Now raspberry jam, on the other hand, is a proper conserve."

"Raspberry?" He scoffed. "That's like the Lexus of the jam world. It's unbelievably pretentious. "

"The Lexus? Fine," I said, sitting forward a little. His expression was just inviting a contest. "Ketchup or HP sauce?" I challenged.

"Ketchup."

"Same," I dipped my head. "HP is just nasty."

"Okay, bread; brown or white?"

"Easy. White," I replied smoothly. "Bad brown bread tastes like cardboard, and what I can't be doing with is the brown stuff with the bits of grain; if I wanted any of that, I'd eat a bag of sunflower seeds or something."

John chuckled his approval, "They do take 'added fibre' a little too far sometimes, don't they?"

I grinned back at him, lacing my fingers together and resting them in my lap. The waitress reappeared suddenly, balancing the full tray of our order with surprising poise. She dished out our respective plates and handed us our cups. I reached for mine gratefully and took an appraising sip. Hot and richly bitter, it was good.

"New job?" I asked as she placed the margarine on the table.

She blinked at me in surprise, fixing me with large hazel eyes. "Yeah, just started the other week. How d'you know?"

Her thoughts had turned anxious so I quickly reassured her, "Just a lucky guess. You're doing great."

She shot me another smile, this one wider and more sincere than its predecessor. "Thanks." She took a step back, assessing the contents of our table. "I think you're all set. If you need anything at all, just give me a shout."

"Will do, cheers." I watched her go, a slight smile on my lips.

"What?" John asked curiously around a mouthful of sandwich.

I shrugged, deftly spreading my toast, "Nothing, she just has pleasant thoughts, that's all."

He glanced to where the girl was stood behind the till, chewing her lip as she punched in some numbers. "What d'you mean by pleasant?"

I took a bite and swallowed before answering. "Just nice, I suppose. They're not intrusive, not critical. It's kind of refreshing actually." I paused for a moment, until I realised what I'd implied. "Not that I'm in any way suggesting your thoughts are bleak. Not all the time anyhow," I added teasingly.

He rolled his eyes. "Ha ha."

"It was a low blow, I'll admit." I slouched back in my seat, setting the remaining toast back on its plate. I traced a random pattern on the tabletop with the fingers of my left hand. "People's heads can be a mess at times, mine included."

He nodded in understanding. "Of course; you'd notice that."

"Yeah, every so often. I catch myself wanting to help them out; to say something small that might ease their mind a bit." I tilted my head thoughtfully and reached again for my nearly full cup. "It's really none of my business, I suppose. If they wanted help, they'd talk it out with someone. I've found it's better if I just leave it alone unless absolutely necessary."

John's stare turned knowing. "I assume you're speaking from experience?"

"Oh yes," I said pensively, "but that's a story for another time." My mind wandered for a short instant before I remembered I had an active audience. "Let's just say it involved a fair amount of damage control, a ton of micro-managing and copious volumes of soup." I shook my head with a chuckle, "Never again."

Naturally John was intrigued, but he let the matter drop. "So how's your mum?" he asked, putting down the bacon roll and carelessly wiping his hands on his trousers.

"She's okay. I spoke to her this morning in fact, just before I left."

"She always ring you at half seven?"

"Occasionally. She knows if she rings then, she'll catch me as I'm getting ready for work." I pursed my lips wryly, "I can't avoid her if she knows I'm there. She does it on the weekends too."

John smiled crookedly. "Any particular reason why?"

"My mum's an early riser; one who tends to forget the rest of the world is fond of lying in bed for a little while longer on Saturdays and Sundays."

"Ah," he inclined his head in understanding. "Harry does that, except at two o'clock in the morning and to regale me with drunken tales of her exploits." His features clouded slightly. "Actually she hasn't done it in a while now."

I watched him closely as I took another swig of my coffee. "You miss her?"

It took him a while to reply. "I'm not sure," he answered truthfully. "Harry's a handful and we've never seen eye-to-eye, but she's family, you know?" I nodded wordlessly, treating it as a rhetorical question. He shifted in his seat, resting his chin in his hand. "I saw her about...three months ago."

"What's she like?" I was trying to picture his sister but it was difficult to assemble a lucid image since I'd agreed to refrain from prying.

"Harry's even shorter than me," he said in an odd tone. "She's got brown-blondish hair, long, the last time I saw her. She's loud, outspoken. We've never gotten on, not really. I think the real problem is she doesn't know when or how to stop. She just pushes all the time; hence the drinking, I suppose," he added absently. "Apart from that, I don't really know much about her. I mean, I've got the basics, but that's about where it stops." He gazed at me over the rim of his cup, "You can, uh, have a look, if you want." I must've appeared blank because he elaborated the offer, "Inside my head?"

"Oh, okay." I located his personal thought path and brought it in range of my hearing, relaxing my awareness of the surrounding refuse. Drawing on specific stems and years of practice, I can piece together an accurate representation of something without much of a stretch. However, John had gone one step better and had actually conjured a picture of Harry for me to look at, holding it at the forefront of his mind. Unsurprisingly, it was a little blurry in the places where his memory wasn't as definite, but all in all he'd summoned a rather decent illustration of his sister.

"Can you see her?" he asked curiously.

I nodded, relinquishing my hold on his consciousness, "Yeah, really clearly in fact; it's almost like a photo." I felt uniquely privileged that he trusted me enough to invite my examination. "Thanks for letting me in."

He watched me oddly for a moment before he caught himself, realising he was staring. "Sorry," he said, shaking himself. "The whole telepathy thing is still relatively new to me."

"I'm learning too," I remarked, thinking back to the incident by the Thames, "all the time."

We fell into a companionable silence as we attended to our remaining breakfasts. I peered out the window over John's shoulder, noting the change in light levels. We'd managed to kill some time, at least.

"What about your dad, if you don't mind me asking? I've only heard you mention him once or twice."

I negligently reached across the table, searching for something to fiddle with. "No, it's fine. There's not much to it really." I considered it, rolling a tube of sweetener between my fingers. "When my dad left my mum, I said some things to him I probably shouldn't have. I won't repeat the exact words, but it had the desired effect; desired at the time, at any rate." I lifted my head to look across at my friend. "I've only seen him a handful of times since I've been at Uni and we never talked about it then; we're both embarrassed by how things turned out, I guess."

A frustrated thought - _Damn. Is that the time? _-stood out against the muted, but dissonant hum. I automatically sought the origin of the sound, easily tracing the tendril back to its author. The plumber swallowed the last of his tea and closed this morning's paper with clear reluctance. Our eyes met briefly and I shot him a wan smile, embarrassed he'd caught me looking.

I swivelled my eyes back to John. "Sorry," I apologised, tapping the side of my head by way of explanation. It took a few seconds for me to gather my thoughts again. "I reckon the split had been coming for a long time though. I mean they'd never been anything like my friend's parents; never, say, as outwardly affectionate; more like close friends, almost." I scratched inattentively at the back of my hand as I spoke, "My mum and I were having breakfast one day, our typical Saturday/Sunday morning, when my dad comes down late. And he's pouring his cereal into a bowl when, all of a sudden, he just turns to Mum and says, 'this isn't working, is it?' And my mum looks up from the paper and she watches him for a moment, then she says, 'no, it's not.'"

I stared into space, feeling my forehead wrinkle with the recollection. The level of detail in which I could recount the incident was unusual, especially since so many larger details of my youth had been lost to the long years of Uni and work. "At which point, I let loose the bitter barb that was my teenaged tongue and – with a few expletives and several profanities for good measure – I rattled off words I shall probably never stop being ashamed of."

John watched me unblinkingly. His face was open and attentive, lacking, I was heartened to note, any hint of judgement. "You were upset," he said simply.

"Yes, but I was also a righteous idiot," I laughed, only a tad bitterly. I stared up at the peeling, off-white ceiling and sighed. "When all this is over, I think I'll go talk to him. It's high time I apologised."

"How old were you?"

I thought about it for a moment. "I was in my first year of sixth form, so I must've been seventeen, maybe? Old enough to realise what was going on, but too young and too conceited to fully understand."

Shaking my head at myself, I twisted in my chair and propped myself up against the wall. I'd been telling the truth when I'd said I'd go and talk to my dad. However awkward the situation might turn out to be and ignoring the dread that arose when I imagined the conversation, it was, in many lights, the correct, adult thing to do. But we all know such things are always more easily asserted, than actually followed through.

Resolving, in all honesty and seriousness, to deal with the matter later, I swivelled back to my friend, determined, for the time being, to put the past to one side. "You're a good listener John, you know that?" I said, looking warmly at him.

"I do have my uses," he said, feigning false modesty.

"Anyway," I snorted, allowing myself a brief, exaggerated eye roll, "enough doom and gloom; tell me about Sarah."

His body language instantly, almost imperceptibly, became more guarded. "I thought we agreed-"

I interrupted him swiftly, "Oh we did; don't worry. Sherlock mentioned her in passing the other day. I thought she might be fair game for conversation, that's all." I gave a small shrug. "If you'd rather I leave it alone, just say. I'll understand."

He glanced down, appearing slightly abashed. "Oh, no it's fine then."

I swallowed a laugh at the anxious expression he was wearing and gestured soothingly with my hands, "Hey, don't look so worried. I was merely going to say she's a special lady if she didn't run a mile after what happened at the circus."

"She seems to be made of sterner stuff than most women, yes," John stated drily.

"I could scope her out, if you'd like. Nothing too in-depth, mind you; just a quick peek inside her head, to see if her motives are honourable," I offered through a straight face. His features fell slightly and his consciousness – the vague impression I was receiving of it, anyway – instantly gauged his discomfort. I immediately felt guilty. "I'm sorry, ignore me. I'm just teasing."

"It's okay Hannah," he chuckled, only a tad uneasily. He broke eye contact and sipped at his tea, slouching back in his seat. "Anyhow," he remarked casually, "I can try to set you up with Sherlock, if you like?"

I was glad I'd already finished my toast, because I'm certain I would've choked. "I'm sorry?" The words came out strangled. "What earth makes you say that?"

"Oh come on Hannah, I've seen the way you watch him; all wide, green eyes."

My tongue nearly refused to form an answer. "No, I..." I began, but trailed off.

He raised his brows disbelievingly and unconvinced lines appeared on his face, "You didn't think I hadn't noticed, did you?"

I hardly heard him; even the sentient background had become suddenly and bizarrely hushed. It was as though something had smothered my hearing, blanketing it to afford me the opportunity to think with unobstructed clarity. I found myself incapable of seizing it. So I teetered there, upon the point of comprehension, frozen almost, while my thoughts raced ahead at about a million miles an hour. Somewhere, so deep inside my head that I was only vaguely aware it was happening, my mind was slotting together the evidence with bemusing detachment. And, out of all those little nothings and non-events, I had my answer.

I really did like Sherlock.

No, did I?

Oh, God help me; I did.

It made so much sense. All those times I'd watched him work and listen to him think; how I'd prompted and processed and responded. I'd been searching for something to convince me that he was more feeling – more human - than he appeared. But I wasn't quite naive enough to think I'd been smitten from the start. I'd been fascinated – that was true - but this, the surfacing of these notions, was clearly more recent than mature. Wasn't it? Perhaps, buried in the furthest reaches of my brain, I'd always known there was more to my attitude towards Sherlock?

And there's your irrefutable proof, the laconic part of my mind observed, you're already overanalysing.

I shoved both judgements firmly from my head.

"God, your face Hannah!" John burst out laughing, unable to contain himself. He was joking. Thank the Lord.

"Ha ha, hilarious," I quipped, catching myself before I could heave a sigh of relief. I was aiming for mildly annoyed sarcasm, but the words – and their accompanying smile - came out just a bit too tightly.

Fortunately, John didn't notice anything amiss. "Your expression though: priceless," he chortled. The amusement lasted only a few instants longer before he realised he was having fun at my expense. He schooled his expression with a small measure of finesse, but couldn't quite iron the mirth from his eyes. "I'm sorry Hannah, I shouldn't have done that," he apologised with a lopsided smile.

It was then I realised that John, despite the whole robust, army doctor thing, shared a very understated, but discernible resemblance to a puppy. I started to laugh helplessly. The thought was strange, my reaction was strange; in fact, the whole damn situation was completely off the wall.

"Oh, come on," I managed at last, shaking my head dazedly. "Let's go see us a railway."

"Yes, of course." John pushed his chair back and stood up, picking his way towards the exit. He paused in his tracks, holding the door open for me, "But imagine that though; you and Sherlock? It'd be strange wouldn't it?"

I mulled over the idea within the safe confines of my head. A telepath and a Consulting Detective?

"The strangest," I murmured, without looking at him.

* * *

**A/N**: Shout-outs are all well and good, but I figure I owe you guys something more for your support. So, to show how much your encouragement means to me, if you'd like to submit a request, I'll quite happily endeavour to write you a one-shot. It doesn't, dare I say it, have to be from Hannah's point of view at all. It could also take place before this story started, or during it, if I perhaps didn't elaborate on a point as much as you'd like. Heck, you could also set the prompt after the end of this fic, but unless you've been peering in the dedicated notebook I keep on my desk, that might be tricky; but by all means. I'm not closing the offer anytime soon and it's open to anyone, so have a think about it and let me know.

A special mention (since I practically just denounced shout-outs) goes to the following people: **Silvermoon of Forestclan**, **SexyKnickers**, **LexieBird, SummerParamour, Artemis Wolfe, Musicunderground, Unnamed, kitsmits, BurstOfSunshine, Tiryn, CrazyCousinEiko **and** SarahELupin. **


	16. Overly Reasonable Theories of Insanity

**Weighing His Words**

**Chapter Sixteen:**

"**Overly Reasonable Theories of Insanity."**

The man pressed a dirtied fluorescent vest into my hands and offered a second to John before disappearing back inside the little cubicle. I regarded it distastefully for a moment and, with a yielding sigh, shrugged it on over my coat, sweeping my hair from under the collar. The corners of John's eyes crinkled when he saw my pinched expression.

"Nice, nice colour. You should wear it more often."

"Mm-hm. Yes, that's exactly what my wardrobe's lacking: a splash of neon orange."

"Well, you see it's just such a lovely shade, that I-"

"Alright Gok Wan, give it a rest."

He shot me an answering grin, but smoothed his expression as the railway worker reappeared. "So are you okay to take us to where you found him?"

The man dragged a palm over his close-shaven hair and tugged absently at an ear lobe. "Sure. Boss-man doesn't really pay attention to these sorts of things anyway. It's this way, I'll show ya."

We fell into step beside him as he led us further down the line. The ground beside the tracks was littered with slate-like rocks and there were patches of green where hardy, stubborn grass still insisted it would grow. Damp earth squelched lightly under my boots and I was satisfied that I'd made the correct decision in footwear. My head jerked up as a train rattled along the bridge ahead of us. If I stretched myself, I could just about make out the minds of the passengers inside, but it was moving too far away, too fast for me to pick out individual thoughts. In my peripheral vision, I saw John rummage in his pocket to produce a small notepad, followed by a pen. Clever. Obviously I'd been too caught up with selecting suitable shoes to think that far ahead.

"Are you going to be long?" The worker asked, rubbing his palms together to instil some warmth into them. A gentle, feather-light probe on my part reminded me that he'd been on the job since twenty to five this morning. Ouch. I looked to John with a shrug. A rookie myself, I'd no idea how long something like this would take.

"We might be."

The man hummed his acknowledgement. "Are you the police then?"

"Sort of."

"I hate 'em."

John glanced up, momentarily surprised. "The police?"

"No, jumpers. People who chuck themselves in front of trains," he said, gesturing widely. "Selfish bastards."

"Well, that's one way of looking at it."

"I mean it," he pushed indignantly. "It's alright for them. Over in a split second, strawberry jam all over the lines." John and I met each other's gaze at the mention of jam, instantly recalling the conversation we'd had not so long ago. "But what about the drivers, eh? They've got to live with it, haven't they?"

Something – both in his tone and inside his head – drew my attention. I turned, studying him for a moment. "Happen to someone you know?"

He nodded vigorously. "A couple of years back, to a friend of mine. He'd been driving even before I joined the company. He had a perfect record; no accidents, no mistakes. One day, some woman just hurls herself in front of the freight he's steering. The guilt nearly destroyed him."

I blinked and looked away uneasily, not knowing how to respond. Thankfully, John saved me from having to at all, interrupting with his own question.

"Yeah, speaking of strawberry jam, there's no blood on the line." He was crouched right beside the track, inspecting his fingers where he'd dragged them along the metal. I peered at the bit he was examining, but couldn't see anything more than a couple of red-brown spots. "Has it been cleaned off?"

"No, there wasn't that much." The answer was accompanied by a shrug.

John's brow furrowed in confusion. "But you said his head was smashed in."

"It was, but there wasn't much blood."

I mightn't have been a doctor, but I was fairly sure that damage that severe would have warranted a lot of it. Again John and I glanced at each other, sharing the same thought. Something wasn't adding up.

"There's actually more down that way," he continued, waving a hand vaguely behind him. "God knows how it got there but-"

"Could you show me?"

He looked surprised by my abrupt inquiry but nodded slowly. "I don't see why not."

"Thanks. Won't be a minute John." My friend only nodded absently, a deep-set frown on his face. I followed the man to another section of track, squatting down near to where he pointed. Squinting at them, I ran my gaze along the rusted lengths, attempting to make out the dried, fading splatters. It was difficult to get my mind around the fact that this was the lifeblood of someone I knew.

The worker had posed a good question though: If Westie had truly jumped in front of a train, how had his blood wound up so far over here? It just didn't make sense.

"You don't talk much do you?"

His voice snapped me out of my perplexed contemplations and I started at the sound of it. I lifted my head slowly and gave a one-shouldered shrug. "As much as the next person, I suppose. How'd you figure?"

He mirrored the nonchalant gesture, but the buzz inside his head instantly became defensive. "I dunno; you just seemed keen to let your partner do the speaking."

"Not especially. He just knows more about this stuff than I do, that's all." I gave him an odd look. He grunted in acknowledgement. "Is there any CCTV around here?" I asked, glancing about. "There must be, surely." My question was answered almost as soon as I voiced it. I spotted a camera high up on the wall of corrugated warehouse.

He followed my gaze. "There's no point, darlin'. Those blasted thing haven't worked for years, they're mainly just for show anyhow. The council keeps promising to send someone out but so far no one's showed up."

"But you're a mechanic. Surely someone would-?"

His expression made it very clear that he thought I was being slow. "Me? Nah, I'm just a rail technician – fancy term for maintenance worker. We don't get paid enough to do that sort of thing."

"Oh."

Neither of us said anything for a few heartbeats. "Well, I'll, uh, leave you to it then," he said awkwardly, clearing his throat. "Just give us a shout when you're off."

"Okay. Thanks," I replied distractedly. I was still scowling at the rails as he ambled off. The alloy was cool against my fingertips. I expelled an agitated breath, puffing at my fringe. Determined to uncover the answer, I went over everything we'd learned so far, more slowly this time. If Westie's body had been dragged by the train then maybe some of his blood would have ended up here. I looked at the area around my feet and then again at the lines in the distance. No, that didn't work; the trains travelled in the wrong direction.

When the points suddenly changed, I hastily snatched my fingers away. The metallic scrapes echoed eerily about the yard, strangely amplified by the silence. Sensing the distinctive hum of a human mind – one that I hadn't already accounted for – I rocked back on my heels and stood up carefully, keeping my hands firmly away from the tracks. I immediately recognised the pattern as Sherlock's.

For reasons consciously unknown to me, I remained where I was, pretending to be absorbed in my survey of the view. All the while, however, I traced his progress closely. He was moving with curious silence on the gravel – which was no mean feat – and I just had to roll my eyes when I read his intentions to spook his friend.

"The points."

His stealth had the desired effect: John hadn't heard him advance and consequently jumped out of his skin. He spun with a hissed "Yes!"

"Mature," I called on a sigh, walking slowly back up to them. Given my, uh, epiphany of attraction, the floodlights, the bridge and the distant trains – anything that wasn't Sherlock –had suddenly become infinitely more fascinating.

Somehow, despite my best efforts not to look, he managed to spear me with a direct stare and simply replied, "You let me." I found I didn't have a comment to answer that. He turned back to John with a slow nod, "I knew you'd get there eventually. West wasn't killed here, that's why there was so little blood."

Realisation flickered across John's mind, beating me to it. "How long have you been following us?" If I hadn't known any better, I would have said that his tone held a hint of petulance.

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched as he registered that fact. He stood straight-backed, hands clasped loosely behind him. "Since the start." He threw us a reproachful look. "You don't think I'd give up on a case like this just to spite my brother, do you?"

The 'uh, yeah actually' went very much unspoken on our parts.

"Hold on a second," I interrupted. "Sherlock, you said 'killed. ' How d'you know it wasn't suicide?"

"The evidence. It's frankly a marvel how you missed it between the two of you. But I should think that was to be expected, all things considered." He stepped back, regarding us seriously. "You, John, were exceedingly slow to begin with. But, in spite of missing vital clues, you've redeemed yourself slightly in noting the points." His hawk-like gaze swivelled to me.

"However, your efforts, Spencer, have been half-hearted at best. You disliked the hypothesis of suicide from the start and consequently let that judgement disillusion you." I opened my mouth to object but he lifted a silencing hand. My jaw clicked shut. "Perhaps it was simply your personal acquaintance with the victim, but I gather that you're just that sort: the optimistic type."

A part of me sank when I heard the faint disgust with which he pronounced the word.

"Nevertheless," he continued, "you both arrived at the correct conclusion eventually. That, I suppose, should count for something." The praise, warped and grudging, was practically subtext.

I bit back a sarcastic 'I'm-glad-you-think-so' and, with considerable difficulty, let his frankness go unchallenged. But I had to consciously relax my face to eliminate what I was sure was a thin lipped expression. _This is who he is_, I reminded myself sternly. _Don't expect anything else._

He drew himself up and moved off with long, easy strides. "Come on," he announced without turning back. "We've got a bit of burglary to do."

John and I remained rooted to the spot, our confusion tangible.

"Did he just say-?"

"Burglary, yes." John looked up at the sky in askance. "I knew my week was missing something."

...

It took us less than half an hour to get where we needed to be. Sherlock led us down a nondescript street, not even hesitating with regard to directions. Either he'd been this way before and had a wicked photographic memory or...well, that probably was the case actually. I looked about with interest, struggling to work out why the scene seemed so familiar.

John's thoughts were indecipherable thanks to the wards I'd set up but Sherlock's typically managed to defy such limitations. The murmur was just a bit too loud to ignore and I found myself listening idly to him as we walked.

_He's waiting, but for what? _His 'tone', if you like, was deeply pensive. Each reflection was carefully and precisely drawn. _It could be a deliberate hiatus, to mount suspense, or perhaps it's logistical. The manoeuvring and planning alone required to execute campaigns like this would be intricate, likely time consuming. Perhaps he's –. No. There'll be another. It's countdown; four of five pips – or five of six, if you include Hannah's._

My utter surprise scuppered the rhythm of my stride and I stumbled a bit. He knew? How? I hadn't told him! How could he possibly-?

"Err, Hannah?" John failed to squash a smile at my expense.

"I'm good," I said quickly, straightening hurriedly. "Must have been a...bottle top or something," I finished lamely.

John, who pressed his lips together to hold in a laugh, merely nodded seriously, thereby neatly sidestepping any further damage to my pride. I loved him a little for it. Sherlock, however, eyed me succinctly and said nothing, clearly doubting my good sense. His mental volume dropped suspiciously low after that. I ignored him, deciding I didn't want to hear the overly reasonable theories of insanity he was undoubtedly nursing.

I must have moved my neck the wrong way because the bruised flesh on my throat complained slightly. It wasn't really painful, tender was probably a better word. I tested the marks with my fingers, pressing lightly to assess the hurt. I let my hand drop quickly to my side when I sensed Sherlock shoot a glance in my direction.

_What is she-? Ah, the Golem._

And that was that. Not even a flicker of concern, nothing. Vague disappointment shimmered inside me. This attraction thing was definitely one-sided.

"Missile plans haven't left the country otherwise Mycroft's people would have heard about it," he said suddenly, stepping down off the curb to cross the road. "Despite what people think, we do still have a secret service."

"Yeah, I know. I've met them." John's tone made me smile.

Sherlock gave no indication that he'd actually heard. "Which means whoever stole the memory stick can't sell it or doesn't know what to do with it. My money's on the latter." He turned off sharply. "We're here."

All of a sudden, I realised where we were. Lucy's brother's house. She'd pointed it out to me when we'd driven past it once while we'd shared a cab somewhere. That aside, I still didn't understand why we were here.

Sherlock cleared the stairs two at a time, pausing on the landing at the top. John followed more slowly, moving dutifully – though hesitantly – after him. He examined the door briefly, running his fingers over the chipped, light blue paint.

"Sherlock," I began, remaining at the bottom of the stairs, "there's a-"

In one swift movement, he took hold of the handle and wrenched it sideways. The door swung open and he stepped through fluidly, disappearing inside without a word.

"Key in the plant pot," I finished with a sigh. "Never mind then." I trotted up to where John was stood.

He looked at me quizzically. "How'd you know that?"

"What single, middle-aged man would keep a wilting conifer around for any reason other than to stash a spare key?"

Realisation dawned on him and he shot a knowing look in the direction of his friend. "Sherlock realised that as well, didn't he?"

"Oh yeah. But rattling the dodgy doorknob is a much cooler way of breaking and entering."

He snorted and I followed him as he headed uneasily inside. "Where are we again?" he whispered.

"Oh, sorry, didn't I say? Joe Harrison's flat." Sherlock spoke at normal volume, barely sparing a fleeting second thought for the crime we'd just committed. He crossed the room, moving straight to the window, and pushed the curtains aside. "Brother of West's fiancée. He stole the memory stick, killed his prospective brother-in-law."

The revelation astounded me. "Are you being serious? Her own brother? How'd you know it was him?" I demanded, rounding on him. A train rattled past outside, hinting at the story to follow.

Sherlock didn't turn, instead flipping open a slim magnifying glass. "A simple leap, Hannah. You and John, given a larger amount of time, would have reached the same conclusion sooner or later. Take a look if you don't want to believe me."

I moved to his side and immediately saw what he was talking about. Mixed among the dust and dead moths were flecks of blood. He was right. I thought back to Lucy's drawn, grief-stricken face and clenched my jaw, my anger outlasting the shock. How could he have done this to her?

"Then why'd he do it?" John asked quietly. His question was not so far off my own.

I started to make a bitter remark but Sherlock cut me off sharply. "If you insist on doing this, Spencer, impartiality is vital. You're getting too involved." He eyeballed me briefly, his face completely devoid of sympathy.

He had a point, but that didn't make it easier. Not all of us in that room had compassion wired like a light switch, one that could be flipped on and off.

Keys rattled outside and then again in the lock. I could hear the low, disgruntled hum of Harrison's mind as he struggled with the weight of his bike.

Sherlock stood, turning slowly, a strange glint in his eye. "Let's ask him."

John advanced silently, drawing a gun I hadn't realised he'd been carrying. He pressed himself close to the wall, waiting until the other man came further into the flat. John wasn't any more inclined than I was to let this murder escape. Harrison spotted him as he stepped into the hall and hefted his bike, ready to hurl it at him. The doctor levelled his gun, feet set firmly.

"Don't! Don't."

Stood like that, John looked surprisingly bad-ass – a sight that momentarily overrode my anger. I felt my lips twitch into a tiny smile that flickered and died soon after it came.

"Have a seat Joe," the consulting detective called from the living room. "We've some questions we would like you to answer." Somehow chillingly cordial Sherlock was more intimidating than condescending Sherlock.

Harrison, recognising defeat, lowered the bike. He didn't demand an explanation; he knew that we knew what he'd done. Under John's watchful eye, he slunk into the lounge, dropping himself tiredly onto the sofa. His eyes skittered over me, widening slightly.

"You're Lucy's mate, aren't you? What the hell are you doing here?"

I said nothing and only observed him coldly, not trusting myself to speak civilly.

"Explain."

Harrison's head snapped back to Sherlock, who was watching stonily. He eyed John furtively but, despite the gun, couldn't completely tear his gaze from the detective. He had the intelligence to note who the real power was in the room, at least.

He wrestled with speech for a moment, nervously dragging his hands over his face. "He wasn't meant to...what's Lucy gonna say? Jesus."

"Why did you kill him?"

He recoiled at John's direct phrasing. "It was an accident. I swear it was." His thoughts confirmed his words as truth, but did little to explain his actions. The less emotional part of my own mind read that he was just as horrified, just as shocked as I was. Unfortunately for him, that sympathy couldn't hold a candle against my other feelings.

Sherlock was equally unmoved. "But stealing the plans for the missile defence program wasn't an accident, was it?"

No, it hadn't been. As Harrison related the tale, I found myself getting more and more riled. Not only had he dealt drugs, he'd been careless enough to himself into trouble over it. The memory of the night he'd killed Westie played out in near-perfect clarity behind his eyes. And because it was in his head, it was in my head to. I fumed in silence, watching in disgust as I saw how it happened.

_He tries opens the door, fumbling, like he always does, with the key in the lock. He needs to replace it, he thinks absently, but discards the idea when the question of money asserts itself. He's just managed to open it when something shoves him from behind. He approached so silently that he doesn't realise he's there until he's touched him. _

"_What are you doing here?" he demands, although he knows full well why he's come. It's the only reason he would._

"_What have you done with the plans?" West's face is tired and taxed, but his anger is clearly visible._

"_What are you talking about?" The denial is knee-jerk and uttered unthinkingly._

_It is the wrong thing to say. West lunges forward and seizes a fistful of his coat. They struggle. He pulls back a clenched hand and lets it fly, half-shove, half-punch. West staggers backwards, going over the lip and falls. Just falls. When he finally stops, he's already hit the concrete with a sickening crack._

_He just stands at the top. Still. Blinking. He doesn't realise he's dead, not straight away._

And somehow, that made it worse.

I jerked back into the present with frightening abruptness, flinching violently.

"I just didn't have a clue what to do. So I dragged him in 'ere. I just sat in the dark, thinking."

"When a neat little idea popped into your head," I spat the words as Sherlock thought them. I didn't even realise that I'd lifted them straight from his mind. His head whipped sharply in my direction, but I was too incensed to notice it. "You just slung him on the roof of a train, ready to make it someone else's problem." My voice was so cold, so callous I barely recognised it as my own. "Did you think something like this would just disappear so easily? Do yourself a favour, Joe. Tell Lucy before someone else does."

His fire rose to meet my ice. "Who? You?" He snorted derisively and raised his voice, "And where the hell have you been? You've spoken to her, what, once since he died? Some friend you are."

Somewhere behind, to my right, John moved toward me, but Sherlock prevented him from interfering. His expression as he regarded me was no longer impassive, but I wasn't of a mind to notice.

"Do not turn this around on me," I hissed. "I was trying to find out what happened."

"How very noble of you." Harrison dragged the word out, his face lined with fury. Angry at me. Angry at himself.

My lips curled into an ugly sneer. I flung every bit of revulsion and loathing I could muster into my closing words, "I found my answer though, didn't I?"

...

I was slumped dejectedly against a brick wall outside, battling a massive, temple-splitting headache, when the pair finally emerged. Sherlock scrutinized me for several long moments before moving past, displaying an uncanny amount of tact in remaining silent. I couldn't hear anything on the telepathic level over the pounding in my head, but his posture gave me the impression that he was absorbed in thought. Whether it had anything to do with me, however, was uncertain.

John cornered me, blocking my narrow-eyed view of the road. He too watched me for a few seconds and was evidently sizing up the risk of speaking to me. Any other time that would have amused me, but right then the moment held no humour.

He laid a tentative hand on my arm and when he finally spoke, it was with uncharacteristic directness. "It was an accident, Hannah. You didn't have to be so harsh." Although gentle with his touch and candid with his words, disapproval still lived in his thoughts.

I wanted to tear myself away from his palm, away from the stinging, painful awareness of his reproach. I didn't have the heart to do it. I wasn't so angry anymore that I could intentionally hurt him. The volatile mix of shock and anger, the malice, had all been spent, leaving me drained of the will to fight.

I drew in a deep breath and exhaled unsteadily, relaxing the tensed muscles my arm. When I eventually met them, John's eyes were clear, once again compassionate. But he knew what I'd almost done, and that shamed me more than anything.

* * *

**A/N: **The unofficial name of this chapter is 'That-which-would-not-be-written.' I've no clue what was so difficult about it actually. It just wouldn't play ball.

Anyway, somebody asked what HP sauce was. It's this brown stuff, kind of like ketchup, that we Brits (some of us anyway) put on stuff like bacon sandwiches or beans on toast. HP, if I remember correctly, refers to Houses of Parliament, where it used to be served. I think Canada has it too, but don't quote me on it.

Gotta say, though, I'm looking forward to working on some of those requests.

Without the support of the following, this chapter might not have been finished: **Musicunderground, CrazyCousinEiko, restoringthehistory, Morbid DramaQueen10, kitsmits, SensiblyScrewy, Noelle M., Silvermoon of Forestclan, 88dragon06, ChristyHolmes, taytayfanatical, Tara in the PNW, lackadaisicallyours, SexyKnickers, Anna - Lee Auston, Artemis Wolfe, Rylia **and **barus.**


	17. Whiplash

**Weighing His Words**

**Chapter Seventeen:**

"**Whiplash"**

For what felt like the billionth time, I held the silk fabric to my dress and cast a critical eye over my reflection. Something about my ensemble was off and I couldn't for the life of me figure out what it was. I exhaled through pursed lips and moved the delicate accessory away again. To don scarf or not to don scarf, that was indeed the question. An irritable step back and an inquisitive tilt of the head later, I still hadn't made up my mind. My gaze swept along the line of my throat, straying ever back to the ugly remnants of the Golem's handiwork. The decision no longer seemed moot; by contrast, crystalline. For the final time, I wound the scarf around my neck, fussed with it briefly and then left it at that.

I reached with forced cheer for my jewellery box and selected the earrings I wanted, threading them through the piercings. It didn't work; not even my strained optimism could shirk the shadows of that afternoon. Of their own accord, my eyes flickered to the clock on the wall. Quarter to seven. Matt wouldn't be here until half past. It was a testament to my restlessness that I was practically ready three quarters of an hour early. I wasn't nervous or excited as such, but a feeling of disquiet had taken residence in my bones and I couldn't quite shake it.

Again, I surreptitiously eyed my reflection, but this time I was contemplating neither my features nor my attire. I knew my appearance wasn't the problem, not really – it had simply had come under the scrutiny of my guilty conscience. I found myself unable to pinpoint what was bugging me so; rather it was on a subconscious level that I knew something was amiss. Was my anxiety the fruit of one of my own half-formed thoughts or the result of a partial tendril from someone else? I let my hands drop to my side and stood still for a moment, working to collect myself. The residual shame from my behaviour earlier hung at the forefront of my mind and I was still feeling its effects. I had yet to fully wipe the anger from my head and the emotion lent a distracting haze; one that hindered any possible reassurance.

I knew my heart wasn't in this date and that recognition had a sour taste. I tried to compensate with the fact we'd only agreed on one date - "no pressure for a second" was what Lucy had said. I realised I was holding to that more than I ought to have been. I knew it was terribly unfair for me to have already – for the most part – written him off and what made it worse, I think, was the fact that I hadn't yet stepped out the front door. My earlier impression of excitement and anticipation was long gone, having vanished into the air somewhere around that greasy cafe table.

Equally troubling was the subtle disappointment I harboured about my date's eyes. Matt's eyes, I seemed to recall, were brown. An alarmingly large part of my conscience wished for another colour; for coldly perceptive, frighteningly intelligent blue.

I picked a bit of fluff from my scarf and flicked it aside, tutting absently. The material was a pretty green colour, a shade that was about as close as I could find to match my eyes. That said, I knew the fabric had more lustre to it than I could ever hope to surmount – tonight especially. After a closing glance, I retreated to the living room, intent on locating the final bits I needed for my purse. Lipstick, phone, keys and cash, it was just as well that was all I needed - it was nearly more than would fit.

I occupied myself by picturing the expression of disgust Sherlock would wear if he ever saw me like this. He'd probably attempt to fathom why exactly it was I needed a tube of lippy (purely aesthetic, doesn't provide any real function) and then, when he couldn't procure a logical reason for it, irritably demand a justification. In fact, knowing what I did of him, he might go so far as to question why I was even going to the trouble to look attractive; if in the event a relationship was a future reality, it was highly unlikely that I'd make this much effort on a daily basis.

But perhaps I was crediting him with too little social awareness. Then again, maybe I wasn't so far off the mark. After all, John had been forced to explain why crashing a friend's date – first date, I might add – was considered a no-no in polite society. Not that Sherlock was, or entertained any desire to be, part of such a collection.

Upon realising who I was thinking so intently about, I shoved my thoughts as far away from Baker Street as I could manage. All its haphazard clutter, chaos and peeling wallpaper could wait, as could one denizen in particular. My phone trilled suddenly from inside my purse and I snapped open the clasp to retrieve it. The caller ID bore Matt's name and number.

"Hello?"

"Hi Hannah, it's Matt."

I shifted my phone to the other ear. "Heya. How are you? What's up?"

"I'm absolutely fine, thanks. Looking forward to seeing you actually."

I knew I should've felt flattered but I was too jittery for it to sink in properly. I was also aware the sentiment should've made me smile; would have, before the cafe happened. It was like anything I'd initially felt towards Matt had been suffocated by my new awareness for Sherlock. I tried to convince myself that I just needed time – and space – to get past this foolish infatuation. I couldn't honestly say it hit home.

"Hannah? Are you still there?"

I jerked back to the present with a start. "I'm sorry, I zoned out for a moment there." I immediately cringed at my choice of words and my awkwardness was only intensified by the point I'd been distracted at. I tried to smooth it over by forcing a laugh, but it sounded hollow, even to my own ears. "I'm looking forward to seeing you too." The lie tasted like starch.

There was a dry chuckle on the end of the line and I felt myself relax slightly. While I mightn't have been keen on dating him anymore it didn't mean I'd any intentions of deliberately wounding his pride.

"Well, I'm glad. It feels like ages since we've actually talked face-to-face."

He had a point: we hadn't actually communicated with each other in person since the coffee shop. Hope stirred faintly in my chest and I perked up a bit; maybe this fascination with Sherlock was simply fleeting. My mind offered nothing that resolved it either way. My inner guru (namely my gut) was remaining unhelpfully and spitefully taciturn.

"It does, doesn't it?" I mused. So much had happened since my flight from the Thames: I'd crashed an exclusive art function, been shot at and strangled by a Czech hit man and shared a collective consciousness with not one but two people. Such oddities were fast becoming a part of my daily life. "Are you alright? Is there a problem or something?"

"Uh, yeah actually." The tone of Matt's voice was endearingly sheepish. "You see, my car's decided it doesn't want to play tonight and I genuinely can't get it to start. I'm worried that by the time I've called the AA and they actually show up to sort it out, we'll have missed our reservation. But I'm loath to bail on you so late."

"Oh. D'you know what's wrong with it?"

I heard him shake his head. "Not a clue. Well, I think I might have some idea but the solution is definitely outside of my mechanical expertise."

I thought for a moment. "I could get a taxi to the restaurant, if that would make it easier? Then you'd at least have time to call somebody. Maybe sort it so someone shows up sometime tomorrow?"

"I hadn't thought of that." The admission was accompanied by an approving noise. "Would that be alright with you? I mean, I know it's our first date and all-"

"Don't worry about it," I said, waving my hand dismissively even though wouldn't see it. "I'll make sure I'm there for half past. It's the Floating Lotus, isn't it? Near Lisson Grove and St. John's Wood?"

"That's the one. Thanks for understanding Hannah. It's just I car-share with my car and-"

"No, no. Don't worry about it. I don't mind, honest. So I'll see you around half-seven, yeah?"

"You can count on it. Thanks Hannah."

"That's okay. Bye."

"Bye."

The line clicked off, firm and decisive. I only wished I felt the same inside.

The remaining time seemed to take an age to pass. Actually, I was so fed up of being idle I was almost reduced to getting out the Hoover and vacuuming both the bedroom and the lounge. I resisted, but only marginally. Not long after, I cracked and called the taxi firm. Given it was a Friday night I reasoned my lift would take a while to arrive, even though the depot was only just down the road. Unusually however, I escaped being put on hold and managed to get through to an operator almost straight away.

"Got it," the man said, noting down my address. "Your car will be about ten minutes, okay love?"

I couldn't help but blink in surprise. Last time I'd checked, I'd indeed been living in central London. With a disbelieving shake of the head, I stashed my phone away once he'd hung up. My laptop was sitting on the coffee table, still switched on, and I went to scoop it up to put it away. But before I could shut the lid, something caught my eye. The webpage it'd been left on had refreshed itself automatically and a new post was sitting innocuously at the bottom of the page.

_Found. The Bruce-Partington Plans. Please collect. The pool. Midnight._

Holding my breath, I had to read it at least five times before the information sank in properly. Unfortunately, when it did, everything suddenly made sense. Sherlock had been preoccupied when we'd left the flat earlier; so much so that he'd forgone the chance to lecture me for my outburst. As if that wasn't proof enough, the gleam in his eye, the excited breathlessness, the restless agitation - they all screamed that he was, in equal parts, both delighted and enthralled by the sheer quality of the challenge issued by Moriarty. All the puzzles and the intrigue were merely verses of a siren song, designed to lure the detective in, and Sherlock had not only seen that but had dismissed our fears too.

But Moriarty was bigger than some taxi driver gone rouge; even bigger than a Chinese Triad. He was not someone to be played with and what I'd realised was, that despite the sheer insanity of the situation, Sherlock was damn well going to take the bait.

If I had any doubts as to where I was directing the driver, they vanished as soon as the taxi pulled up; a black spectre idling close to the curb.

"Where to, sweetheart?" the cabbie asked, twisting in his seat.

"Baker Street." My voice was tight. "221B."

...

For a horrible moment, before I remembered that Mrs Hudson now just left it on the latch, I'd jumped to the worst conclusion possible when I'd arrived to an unlocked door. I tackled the stairs cautiously, placing my feet carefully, almost reluctantly, on each step. Stalling for time, I paused halfway up the staircase, mentally scanning the building for people. There were only two frequencies broadcasting. Sherlock's esteemed landlady – her mind, while initially seeming harmlessly benign, held a surprising astuteness – was in her own flat, pottering away. And, of course, there was the man himself.

I'd anticipated some sort of mental blizzard; thoughts flitting about the room, ricocheting impatiently off the ceiling and the floorboards; sometimes hushed, sometimes strident, snatching facts and conclusions from the air. Once again, my assessment was way off the bat. I could hear his thoughts, murmuring and simmering gently away under the surface; a manner, I could sense, that he was trying to control further still.

_But will he reveal himself? Given the sheer volumes of time and resources that have been poured into this great game of his it's highly likely._

Moriarty was in reach and Sherlock, with single-minded, blinkered determination was going to track him down. For the first time, it dawned on me that perhaps Moriarty's apprehension wasn't Sherlock's primary objective. He cared little for any gratitude or reward, so it couldn't be about the capture or the end result. And he certainly didn't do it for the glory because he couldn't care less for the opinions of others. The rush Sherlock got came from the chase, the pursuit, and Moriarty was providing the ultimate high. His arrest was merely an afterthought.

_But perhaps he won't. The risk of capture must, no, will occur to him. To survive in the profession this long, he'd have to be shrewd; doubly so to attain the resources he has. He knows my capability – tested it himself. But if he was clever, really clever – which he's proven he is – he'll send someone in his stead. It would eliminate the risk. If he chose his puppet diligently, picking someone who thought and acted like him and who knew his work inside and out, I very well might be unable to tell the difference._

The thought sat uneasily with Sherlock, threatening his state of unnatural calm.

_No. He's expended too much time on this, shown too much attention to the details. He will appear. He has to._

As much as he would deny it, Sherlock wanted to see his adversary in the flesh; to finally be able put a name to all the whispers and the riddles and the texts. If it'd been anyone but him, I would have said the need bordered on desperate. But it wasn't anybody else.

I hovered silently on the threshold, one palm placed flat against the doorframe. The windows in the lounge, the ones that'd shattered in the explosion, had been hastily boarded up. A chill breeze snuck in through the slats, moving carefully throughout the room. It appeared even the wind was cautious tonight. Sherlock was holed up in an armchair, his feet pulled up on the cushion, almost beneath him. There was no unnecessary movement in the way he held himself. He stared ahead, but not vacantly; simply otherwise engaged. He was wearing his coat and scarf, which was hardly unusual given the temperature.

"Please don't, Sherlock." I spoke from the doorway, more softly than I'd intended.

He didn't start; even if he hadn't narrowed down who it was, he'd detected and ignored my presence about thirty seconds ago. His eyes flicked lazily in my direction before moving away again.

I toyed briefly with the idea of moving further into the room but something stopped me, suggesting it was better I kept my distance. Sherlock was territorial by nature and I knew I was more likely to be successful if I said my piece without encroaching on his boundaries. "I'm serious, don't."

His brow furrowed but he didn't reply straight away. Silence ensued, lasting for several heartbeats, persisting until he finally broke it. I could tell he was irritated I'd disturbed his peace and that he couldn't see the point in the voicing of the request.

"Why?" The word was abrupt but distracted.

I tried to shape my argument into one he would see the merit of, but while I cast about for the right words, the precious time he'd reluctantly allowed me was slipping away. I knew even before I'd said them my words would be inadequate.

"He's dangerous," I finished lamely. "You can see that."

"Yes."

"It wasn't a question."

"I know."

I moved my hand from the wall, letting it drop where it could worry nervously with the front of my dress. I ventured a few small, cautious steps across the threshold, almost to the carpet, my heels clacking on the wooden floorboards. On dangerous ground, I knew if I strayed too close it would spring the trap of his patience. I could afford to let him order me out no more than I could allow him to continue this pursuit.

"I'm so close." I froze at his words. His stare remained fixated on the space before him and his voice was slow, far away almost; the very picture of absorption. "I can't not, Hannah. This is the only mind that has ever paralleled my own."

"I know that," I conceded warily, "but that's what worries me." I spoke carefully, aware that if I so much as phrased or implied something incorrectly I would fail. "However good you are, he's at least of the same calibre. To set the tasks he has, he had to be able to fathom them for himself. And they weren't a walk in the park to solve, even for you. This guy's clever, Sherlock. It would be a long shot to say that he's cleverer, but you've got to realise the danger. Please. Although you're meeting on your own terms, it's his turf. Moriarty invented this playing field; you're just the opponent he invited there."

My speech did little to deter him; they fanned the flames, if anything. When he finally looked at me, his expression had changed and only then did I grasp my mistake. In a costly oversight, I'd presupposed that Sherlock was unaware of the severity of the situation. In reality, it was because he understood this that he ploughed so doggedly ahead. And I'd handily reiterated it to him.

No longer stoic, something had faltered along the path of his control. The truth was plain enough to me now: he was possessed by this game and would defend his interest until the bitter end. Any efforts of dissuasion were futile. Though they didn't smoulder or burn – perhaps I would have been able to discourage him if they had – his eyes seemed strangely bright. Their wild fervour defied me to look away. I couldn't.

His thoughts reared suddenly and I, so closely monitoring them, recoiled slightly with the force. Even without my advantage, I knew him well enough to gauge to tell that his control was slipping. He stood up fluidly and stalked the length of the room, stopping just a few paces short of me.

"Why do you think I do it, Hannah? This skill, this practice I indulge in?" His voice was unusually low, even for him. "Life is boring. Slow. Empty. Dull. Logic isn't. To get to a conclusion, I create the foundations of the steps I take. It's my reasoning that gets me there." He turned sharply, gesturing insistently with his hands. The movements were made jerky by his restrained excitement. "And it's not just about how I get to that conclusion; it's how quickly I arrive there and how many steps it took before I managed it. Deduction doesn't need technology. It's all me." He uttered the last sentence almost pensively, again looking to that faraway place of knowledge and understanding that I, in all my inanity, would never witness but through him.

His tone had changed to one I'd only identify afterwards when it was too late. I would come to realise that although he didn't _need_ someone to understand, a small – but not insignificant – part of him _wanted_ someone to be able to. It was the frustration of a genius; he had no one to compare to, to compete with. That was why Moriarty was so important. He provided a welcome distraction - one that made Sherlock's existence in this mundane world just that little bit more bearable; a firework shattering the banal calm of a monotonous sky.

But it was to take me longer than this particular conversation to fully comprehend that.

Sherlock's gaze alighted on me; some unidentifiable, intangible light behind it. I began to understand that this exchange meant more than it seemed on the surface or indeed beneath a few more layers than that. The simple fact that he was explaining his reasons to me was an event worthy of a plaque. For because Sherlock was the very product of his motives, he was, in effect, justifying himself to me.

With that realisation, something inside me, some barrier, crumbled. I'd never seen him so fervent. And although some walls still remained, the sight began to raze some of those reservations I harboured. I genuinely didn't know how I felt at that that point; all the confounding actions, emotions and thoughts were so entangled it was intensely difficult for me to separate them. For a few brilliant, incredible instants, I thought I had it; that I'd finally discovered what made him_ tick_.

"Why are you here?"

The query baffled me for a moment; how could an answer that was so plain to me elude him so? I spoke unthinkingly then, surprise getting the better of me, and uttered something that had I'd only ever meant for my head.

"Because I care."

Although it took a moment, his face, that had been so free before, closed suddenly; a door or a window slammed shut. By some unfortunate miracle, Sherlock, the self-asserted sociopath, had recognized and understood the entirety of my words and their connotation.

He looked at me then, regarding me with such a curious, searching expression that I almost believed that something – about _us_ – would change. I looked at him right back, wanting furiously to deny what I'd implied but, at the same time, feeling a furtive, desperate hope kindle inside me. I wanted him. I wanted to be his.

I didn't speak and neither did he. His eyes swept over my face, lingering as he took in my expression and the emotions that were undoubtedly frozen across it.

"Oh Hannah," he said on a laden sigh, turning away, "I expected more."

Whiplash.

I stared at his back dumbfounded and unable to speak. But once the words finally sunk in, they cut me to the bone. One hundred different emotions rattled around inside my chest, vying for dominance. My grip on his mind failed in my shock and he was inconceivable once more; about as familiar as a stranger in the street.

He searched me then, but his gaze was no longer fevered or eager; it was analytical again, barely interested. It hurt more that I'd been the one to make it that way. He was standing by the fireplace, still with his back to me, unaware of the sizable rebuff he had handed to me.

He drew his long fingers along the lip of the mantelpiece before adding absently, "You could've been so great."

If any of my hopes had survived the initial quake, they quickly crumbled to dust. Speech deserted me. I didn't know what to say. The silence, so different from its older sister, was tense and heavy. I swallowed, hard, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. It was a few seconds before I could speak. All that fretting, all that feeling, only be treated like a disappointment. Bitterness twisted in my chest; a grotesque, venomous creature.

It took everything I had, anger and courage, to lift my head to look at him. "Well, if this is where it gets me," I said, setting my jaw, "then I want no part of it."

By that point, I'd settled on the two emotions that were the easiest to tackle: hurt and anger; particularly volatile ones at best. Crying in front of him would have been my greatest error and I fought my prickling eyes vehemently. Jerkily, I turned to go, but some cross, foolish impulse stopped me.

"We're all just ants to you, aren't we?" I said angrily. "You just shake the box and watch how we fall. But that's not how it works Sherlock and it's about bloody time you learned that."

He twisted slightly in my direction and I could see the disdainful set of his lips. "You're wasting your time here, Hannah. Go home."

I'd already been moving furiously in that direction, but the audacity of the order rooted me to the spot. "What makes you so indifferent to the world?" I demanded. "Are you mad at it?" No answer. I'd swallowed again, taking a deep breath to collect myself, when an idea suddenly dawned on me. "Or is this because I can hear your thoughts? Because God-forbid that anyone actually comes close to understanding what goes on inside your head."

He tilted his head back and laughed scornfully. "Ah yes. Your claim to 'telepathy' - one I have yet to unearth conclusive evidence for." He sniffed derisively. "Even if I was to suspend reality and allow that there could be a tiny chemical possibility that generates extrasensory cognition, it would not make any difference. The conclusions would remain the same. The outcomes would remain the same. Any facts I perceive, through logic and deduction, are more creditable than any emotional, empathetically-biased litter you could dredge up from the depths of a person's skull. My evidence provides answers. What I do, Hannah, requires skill, finesse. It strikes me that your little genetic accident – should it be proven viable – begs very little in the way of talent. You just blunder about your daily life, no different from the tedious masses you strive so hard to separate yourself from."

I could scarcely believe what I was hearing. Anger bubbled resentfully inside my chest but I refused to reduce myself to shouting at him. I folded my arms across my body, "Oh, okay, so apart from slow, bland and deluded, what am I?"

"Ordinary," he returned matter-of-factly. He eyed me succinctly, taking in my indignant posture before adding, "It is not a personal slight; simply the truth."

"Really?" I laughed bitterly. "That makes me feel so much better."

He exhaled exasperatedly then, as if I were nothing more than a particularly trying child, and fixed me with an apathetic stare. "As you've so astutely noted, I am presently occupied. Kindly take your both obstinacy and gallant disillusions of me elsewhere."

I was brought up short by his cold indifference. Unable to reply but equally unable to walk out I glanced away, taking a long, sweeping look at the harmonised disorder that was his natural habitat. Loaded bookshelves lined the walls and papers were strewn across all the surfaces; it was ironic that his mind was so organised, yet his belongings were scattered across the length and breadth of his home. But perhaps it wasn't.

Suddenly feeling very tired, I swivelled back to him, intent on asking one final question. My hands no longer fretted with my clothing and instead were perfectly still by my side. I deliberately locked myself out of his mind, wanting to hear the answer from his lips and nowhere else.

"Tell me, Sherlock," I asked slowly, lifting my eyes to his. "What am I to you?"

He watched me for a long moment, considering his answer carefully and when he spoke, it was with conviction. "Nothing," he answered finally, unblinkingly, never looking away. "In the greater scheme of things, you are nothing to me."

It was the answer I'd dreaded, but somehow expected. The knowledge was heavy. Unwelcome. I blinked, testing the information as it sank in. It ached, I knew it did, but I was too numb to feel anything properly.

I felt myself nod, once, briskly. Business-like; just as he'd been. "Then do as you please." My voice sounded faint, insubstantial, but I felt strangely compelled to prove I was stronger than that. I turned, making for door on unfeeling but steady legs, searching for the retort I so very much desired. The closer I got to escape, the less frozen I felt. Just before I crossed the threshold, I twisted to look back at him.

"Try not get John killed," I said flatly, feeling my lips curl around the words. "He's more than you'll ever be."

Not a personal slight; simply the truth.

No.

A lie.

* * *

**A/N: **This was one of those moments that could've gone so many ways. The amount of drafts for this chapter, seriously. Ugh. Trickiest piece I've ever written – hands down.

Anyway, on a decidedly less angsty note, I'd like to draw your attention to a wonderful piece of writing, featuring Hannah, penned by the lovely **CrazyCousinEiko**. It's called **Letting Go **and is an awesome one-shot with a twist. Please do have a read and let her know what you think.

Thank you to the following people whose wonderful encouragement helped me get this chapter down: **Musicunderground**, **kitsmits**, **LadyRaylen**, **Silvermoon of Forestclan**, **SexyKnickers**,**kblvs2read**, **Noelle M**, **Keeper of the Labyrinth**, **CrazyCousinEiko**, **liszst**, **barus**, **88dragon06**, **BurstOfSunshine**, **Jfreak**, **srooone**, *a lovely person who didn't leave a name,**lackadaisicallyours**, **Lamminator**, **daydreambuff**, **algie888** and **Izumi**.


	18. Traffic

**Weighing His Words**

**Chapter Eighteen:**

"**Traffic"**

* * *

_Warning: mild profanity follows_

* * *

I pulled the door closed behind me. It shut easily, too easily, and with an awful sense of finality. I was drained. Numb. The whole situation felt surreal, almost dreamlike. It was only as reality began to blur that I realised unshared tears had pooled behind my lashes. Were they born of anger or hurt? A little of both, I imagined, blinking them back. I stood on the landing, fingers light on the banister. I was waiting, hoping, for an intervention that would never come. I was being foolish and I knew as much, but for a last, miniscule moment longer, I lingered at the top of the stairs, all too ready to lift my feet and turn back in the direction I had come. Hesitation warred within me. Could I undo the damage I had wrought? The answer appeared, suddenly crystalline: perhaps, but not tonight.

This was a matter for another time, I told myself firmly.

Straightening with the acceptance, I let my hand drop from the railing. The bare, wooden stairs creaked under me and I took them carefully, one at a time, in my heels. The movements were so different from any other time I'd traversed the same staircase; more subdued, more careful, more decisive. Or perhaps none of those fitted? A strange fog was impeding my thought process, making it difficult to think clearly. A single, bitter chuckle forced its way out. If only one thing was for certain, it was that Sherlock definitely had a knack for making you feel like a useless and stupid fool. But I couldn't honestly say that this was the first I'd noticed that particular quality.

Human thoughts murmured around the edges of my hearing but I ignored them deliberately. For the first time since I'd come into my ability, I truly felt like a parasite, one who fed off the ideas of others and rarely submitted her own. Who was I to monitor the musings of another and then comment or act upon them? Or, having developed this gift naturally, without requesting it, was it excusable? I didn't know; the answer was too fluid, too dependent upon circumstance for me to assert an answer without the shadow of a doubt.

I'd conquered the steps and progressed onto the hall carpet when I tripped. The heel of my left shoe snagged in one of the depressions of the trampled rug and my stride faltered as my balanced failed. Feeling myself tilting forwards, I flung my weight back in a vain attempt to remain upright. It didn't work, I'd put too much force behind the correction. I hit the stair hard, slamming forcefully into the unforgiving surface, breaking my fall with my butt and coccyx. I yelped in pain, the levels of which increased as the jarring sensation travelled up my body, rattling my bad shoulder. A sharp rap reverberated in the cramped hallway.

"Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow."

I remained still for a moment, too addled in my wits for any adventurous movement. Adrenaline thrilled through my system, carried by the blood that was suddenly pumping frenziedly throughout my body. My lower back smarted painfully and I rubbed it, hoping to eliminate the sting. Somewhere behind me I heard a door open and my head whipped around, following the sound. For a fraction of a second I thought, well, that _he _had come to check on me. But of course it wasn't him. Why would it be?

Mrs Hudson was making her way towards me, sincere concern written across her face. Her thoughts trilled with alarm. "Oh goodness Hannah, what happened? Are you alright?"

I blinked up at her for a moment before replying, unable to process the words immediately. "I, uh, think so, yeah. I just...had a disagreement with the rug." I swallowed thickly, "It, erm, won."

"You daft thing, let's get you up," she tutted sympathetically. She tucked a guiding hand underneath my elbow to steady me as I hauled myself to my feet.

I grunted and then winced as I put extra weight on my ankle. I tested the joint, rolling it in a careful circle. While it hurt, it was by no means unbearable. Splaying my fingers flat against the wall, I leant into it while I unstrapped my heels. Once I'd extricated my feet from the blasted things, I regarded them with a hint of disgust, feeling both stupid and embarrassed in equal parts. How many years had I walked in similar footwear? And it wasn't as if they were excessively high either. With a stocking-clad toe, I grudgingly straightened the offending rug. I just about managed to refrain from scowling at it too.

"Come and sit down for a bit," she said, eyeing me closely. "You can have a biscuit, how does that sound?"

I would've had a heart of stone if I'd not smiled at that. "That sounds great, Mrs Hudson."

She led the way to 221A and I followed, limping a little. She ushered me gently through the doorway, first into a tiny hall and then off into a kitchen. I looked about curiously. It was a fitting room for a woman like herself, homey and neat, with only the smallest amount of clutter. The floral print wallpaper was a bright cream, a feminine distinction so separate from the dark pattern decorating the walls of the man cave upstairs. A much used, but well cared for baking glove was draped over the oven railing, ready should it be needed, and I spied dozens of cupboards that were no doubt stocked to the brim. It felt loved, did Mrs Hudson's kitchen.

"Here, come and sit down dear."

The lino felt strangely cool under my feet as I padded, albeit haltingly, across to the little table, pulling out a chair to sit on. Mrs Hudson, taking a delightfully British approach to the crisis, flicked the kettle on and took down two delicate (but by no means undersized) china cups from a nearby cupboard. I wasn't inclined to object in the slightest. I almost offered to make it for her, but stopped. This wonderful room was her domain and she was clearly in her element here, who was I to disturb a master at work?

"I'll put a bit of sugar in it. You look ever so pale."

"I appreciate this, Mrs Hudson," I said quietly. While we'd had the odd conversation, it struck me that I'd never really gotten to know her properly. I was immediately sorry for the fact.

She looked at me over her shoulder, "It's no trouble Hannah, and you're always so polite to me and the boys." Well, I wouldn't exactly say _always_, not going by my recent behaviour. We were both quiet for a moment, sharing a brief, but not uncomfortable silence. "That's a pretty dress you've got there," she continued, "are you going somewhere special tonight?"

I remembered my plans with a jolt. With all the drama upstairs, I'd completely forgotten where I'd been headed in the first place. "Oh damn, yeah. I'm meant to be meeting someone from work." I paused, considering the situation seriously, "In fact, I should probably ring him, tell him I can't make it." It was awful of me, I knew, but by that point the date was the furthest thing from my mind.

"I'm sure you could still get there, dear. Don't worry about the tea, just go."

I debated for a while before shaking my head slowly. "Somehow I don't think I'd be great company tonight anyway." I made a point of ignoring the heavy feeling of guilt in my chest.

"Well, he's bound to be a nice man. I'm sure he'd understand if you tell him what's happened."

"I really hope so. Do you mind if I–" My phone pinged from inside my bag and I leaned down to retrieve it. Realising what I'd done automatically, I glanced sheepishly up at Mrs Hudson. "I know it's terribly rude, but can I–?"

She smiled gently. "Nonsense, go ahead." She turned back to the teas, "I'm just finishing these up anyway."

Speak of the devil and the devil shall text: it was Matt. I tapped my thumb against the screen, waiting impatiently for it to open. I was expecting some sort of 'I'm here, where are you at?" message but was surprised by the truth.

_Can't make it tonight. Something big's come up. Explain when I can. Sorry._

_M x_

I felt a bit ashamed at the relief that coursed through me. Although I knew it wasn't decent of me to think that way, I was inwardly glad that I'd not been the one to pull the plug. Reading over the message again, I figured it must have been something urgent – his texts had never as brusque as that before. I was quiet for brief spell while I thought. Frowning, I hoped whatever it was wasn't too serious; he was, as Mrs Hudson had termed him, a 'nice man' after all.

"He's cancelled, says something's come up," I spoke just as Mrs Hudson was placing a cup in front of me.

She took the seat opposite, sitting down delicately. "Oh no, what a shame. Did he say why?"

"Just that it was something big. Family stuff, I presume." Absently, I pressed my hands into the warm china, letting the heat seep into my palms. I looked down at the steaming liquid, admiring the colour. "Thanks, by the way." I took a sip, savouring the taste. The tea:milk:sugar ratio was in perfect harmony; she'd gotten it spot on.

"Not to worry." She was lifting her own cup to her lips when she paused suddenly, putting it back down. "Oh, silly me, I forgot the biscuits." She was on her feet again before I could protest, rummaging around in a beaten tin. "What would you like Hannah? I've got custard creams, the chocolaty rectangle ones – Bourbons, that's the word – or some ginger biscuits."

"Some of the ginger ones would be great, thank you."

She set the generously filled plate down beside my mug a few seconds later. "Here you go, dear."

I smiled at her. It sort of felt good to be fussed over. It reminded me of when I was a kid, when my mum would have squash and a snack ready as I came home from school. Before I'd developed an attitude problem, before Dad had left. I realised I missed that maternal contact with her and wondered briefly whether it was time to start mending bridges.

"Those were my son's favourite too, you know," Mrs Hudson said suddenly. "He would eat them by the bucket load. Never made the slightest bit of difference, mind you. He was a bag of bones, ever since he was a little boy. A quiet little thing too."

My eyebrows went up in surprise. "I didn't know you had a son."

"Well, stepson really; my ex-husband's from his first marriage. He lives in the States, Florida, last I heard, but that was some time ago. I haven't seen him since, well..." as she trailed off, her expression, as well as her thoughts, grew tinged with sadness.

I watched her for a moment, speaking only when I was sure I wasn't about to upset her further. "What's his name?"

"Daniel." Her voice sounded faraway and she drifted for a moment, lost inside old memories.

Very carefully, so that I didn't intrude on her musings, accidentally or otherwise, I busied myself with counting all the other minds I could sense. Doing a quick tally, I reckoned I could identify about eight individual broadcasters. Possibly nine, if I really stretched myself. Four next door, one across the street and another–

"Goodness me, I do get distracted, don't I?" She shook her head with a sigh. "Are you feeling a bit better now?"

"I think so," I answered. I shot her a small grin, "One should never underestimate the soul-soothing powers of Yorkshire Tea."

"Most definitely not," she replied simply.

Without fully realising it, I lapsed back into silence. Although I was calmer, thoughts still tumbled wearily about my head. I didn't know where to start. I considered my failed evening and felt another wave of guilt over how I'd reacted to the Matt situation. It was made worse by the fact that this wasn't the first time I'd treated or considered him unfairly. Now I really thought about it, I'd barely given the poor guy a chance. Of its own accord, my mind then turned to work, which I had tomorrow, and I suddenly became conscious of how often I'd been MIA or not fulfilling the role I was paid for. Thomas's indulgence, a god-send though it was, would only last so long. I knew that if I wasn't careful, I'd be out of a job soon; something I literally could not afford to happen. Nervousness tugged at me and I picked viciously at a cuticle without knowing I was doing it.

And finally there was Sherlock, with all running and the taxis and the breaking-and-entering that was all part and parcel of life when he was in the picture. But the months that I'd been aware of him and John had been, well, good. I realised I liked all the chaos and unpredictability Sherlock brought to the table. Understanding hit me with a jolt: I'd been bored before I met him. The irony of that wasn't lost on me either. Folding towels and making beds was safe, ordinary. Sherlock, and everything that came with him, most definitely wasn't.

Mrs Hudson reached across the table and patted my wrist. "He'll come around pet, he always does."

I looked at her sharply, startled by her words. How did she– oh. These walls, after all, could only so thick. "I'm guessing you heard us?"

She smiled gently. "Some of it. But he's a good man, Hannah, underneath it all. Okay, he has...quirks that would drive anyone potty but he can be incredibly kind, you know."

"When he wants to be," I added with noticeable bitterness.

"Yes, when he wants to be," she admonished, not unkindly. "That's why he's Sherlock. But he treats you better than he does most others. That should count for something, surely?" She drank the last of her tea, fixing me with a knowing look. "You'd already be gone if his shortcomings really bothered you. Somehow I don't think you'll be disappearing anytime soon."

My eyebrows rose. "Why's that?" I asked, surprised that she knew enough of me to assert as much.

"Sherlock doesn't have or need many friends. But the ones he has got, yourself included, mean a great deal more to him than he'll ever let on. He's funny like that, but it's just his way." She paused, letting her words sink in. "Just give it some time, Hannah. Sherlock might be brilliant but he's also a man; they're confused by nature." A flicker of youthful mischief danced in her eyes and slivers of fond memories stirred on her subconscious, leaving me with a distinct impression of the younger, highly spirited woman she'd once been.

I let out a startled peal of laughter. "Oh, I'll bet you were a terror."

"Of course dear," she replied calmly. "It's the only way."

Mrs Hudson: Queen of Deadpan, who knew?

"What was he like?" I asked suddenly. "Before he met John, I mean."

She considered the question for a moment, tapping her elegant fingers on the tabletop. "Lonely, I think, even if he didn't realise it. Part of his trouble is that he needs constant supervision; I rather get the impression that he doesn't know when to stop sometimes. While he's living here, I can keep an eye on him. I much prefer it that way too, truth be told. He has a terrible habit of trying to go without food for days on end. Why, he'd waste away if I left him to his own devices."

"I was going to say, I don't think I've ever seen him eat." I shook my head slightly, my earrings making a pleasant tinkling sound as I did. "Poor John; it's gotta be a full time occupation watching out for him."

"They watch out for each other, I think, although neither of them will ever admit it, of course."

"Chalk and cheese but they work, strangely enough." I shook my head again, this time in disbelief. "It's like John is Sherlock's moral compass and in turn Sherlock, and all his chaos, keeps John from climbing the walls." Without his flatmate, I wasn't entirely convinced that the doctor could have adjusted to civilian life as well as he seemed to have done.

"I know what you mean, dear. I thought they were together, when I first met them," she said on a laugh.

A smile flickered across my face. "Nope, John is definitely not gay." I was thinking back to when we'd first met and, completely by chance, I'd caught John checking out my butt as I'd walked away. But he'd done it so discreetly and politely that I'd forgiven him pretty quickly.

"It's all the same to me, I'd just wish he'd find someone who'd rid him of those awful jumpers." I had to press my lips together to keep myself from laughing. Mrs Hudson noticed and added archly, "Don't you go pulling that face, young lady. I'm almost certain you've had exactly the same thought."

"Yes, Mrs Hudson." I tried to smooth my face and appear contrite, but I couldn't honestly say it worked. I spluttered, trying to hold it in, but the laughter was determined to bubble out of my throat. Before long, Mrs Hudson had joined in, and the sound of her ladylike titters caused me to practically double over with mirth.

"Oh, we're rotten talking about him like this," she said, wiping her eyes.

"I don't even think it's the cardigans I'm laughing at," I replied, a little breathlessly. I teetered precariously on the edge of more giggles. "Bless him. I just...I'm just slap happy, I guess." Once I'd recovered, I eyed the clock that hung over the stove. "It's getting late," I sighed. "I think I'd better leave you in peace. Where did you want the cups?"

"Just in the dishwasher, thank you Hannah. It's the third door to the right of the sink."

Getting up, I stowed them away before turning to face her. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson, for the tea, the talk. Everything." I placed a hand lightly on her arm. Her feelings flowed into me _pleased/ glad /fond_. "I mean it."

"Anytime dear."

I walked slowly towards the front door, straps of my heels looped over my arm. I'd twisted to bid her a goodnight when she caught sight of my bare feet.

"Oh Hannah, you can't go out like that; you'll catch your death of cold. Wait a here a minute." She disappeared into a room that I presumed was the lounge and emerged a few seconds later with a pair of fluffy pink slippers. "You can borrow these to go home in." Before I could so much as open my mouth, she silenced any and all objection with a look.

"Thanks. I'll look after them, I promise." I slid them on and wiggled my toes experimentally. My feet, being a fair bit larger than Mrs Hudson's, hung over the edges, but the material was soft on my skin and kind to my bruised ankle.

"I know you will." She gave me another smile, "Goodnight Hannah, safe journey."

"See you later."

I'd stepped out into the chilly night, when she spoke again, this time more softly. "Whatever he said to you, he does care. He's just not used to having people there for him, that's all."

I nodded hesitantly but didn't say anything – what was there to say? Thankfully Mrs Hudson didn't seem to expect me to reply either. I turned, wrapping my coat tightly around my body. I heard the door shut behind me, followed by the sound of Mrs Hudson securing the chain. Her mind hummed quietly from inside, a sound which grew muffled as she retreated further into her home.

The light of the yellow-orange streetlamps wavered, making shadows dance on the pavement. There was no one else about, not even a buzz in telepathic range. London was strangely quiet, the noises of other people distant and muted. I headed in the direction of the main street, deciding it was my best bet for a taxi. I managed about thirty paces before I realised I'd forgotten my purse.

"Bollocks," I muttered and shuffled around to face 221B.

Looking back on it now, I can clearly hear the car pulling up behind me. But, for whatever reason, at that moment I didn't twist around, didn't even register the menacing, nonverbal intent.

To my complete surprise and fright, something grabbed me from behind. I instinctively drew in a sharp breath to scream. A huge palm clamped over my mouth, effectively silencing my yell, and a thick, muscular arm circled about my waist yanking me back toward some unknown destination. I couldn't help myself, I panicked. Despite struggling and thrashing violently, the grip was too strong for me to break its hold. I bit down hard on the hand smothering my mouth. The figure grunted and released my face. _Pain/disgust/anger _gushed into me via the skin-to-skin contact and I felt a rush of feral satisfaction_. _My triumph was short lived however, ending abruptly with a sharp blow to my stomach that knocked the wind out of me.

As I gasped for air, I was lifted up roughly and hoisted in the direction of the road. Where it had been hurt in my earlier fall, my back protested at the rough treatment. In a last ditch attempt to get free, I lashed out blindly with the heel of my shoe, driving the significant point into flesh.

"Fuck! You little bitch!"

Swells of anger and violence rolled off his mind and slammed into my own, adding to my fear. I scrambled to get away but he regained his balance too quickly. My head smacked against the roof as he bundled me into a waiting vehicle. The second I was inside, the door slammed shut. I frantically tugged at the handle, becoming increasingly desperate. Locked.

"No, no, no, no!"

I threw myself across the backseat to the other door, fingers frantically searching for the lever in the dark. It opened before I could reach it. Too afraid to rush the figure, I propelled myself backwards, pressing myself as close to the door as I could manage. A smaller target. I was trapped, well and truly. My already ragged breathing quickened at the thought.

A man in a dark suit slid fluidly inside and the car pulled away as soon as he was in. I recognised him immediately. My mouth fell open. What the hell was going on? The face, the eyes and the hair were all familiar.

It was Matt, but at the same time, it really wasn't.

"So glad you could join me, Hannah." He smiled at me, an unhinged mockery of the kind, gentle smile I'd known before. He clapped his hands together, suddenly gleeful. "Oh, you should see the delicious look on your face; it is classic, truly classic. You'd be right darling, Matt from the hotel's checked out. Jim Moriarty," he grinned widely, displaying teeth. "Pleased to meet you."

I just stared at him, aghast. Matt. Matt was Moriarty. The thought ricocheted about my skull, over and over again. I couldn't believe it.

He tutted in disappointment. "Had you not figured it out, sweetheart? Well, obviously not judging by that look. If one thing can be said about you, it's that you pull an excellent surprised face." He twisted his features into a theatrically exaggerated version of my own.

"Stop it," I demanded, suddenly finding my voice. The words came out little more than a squeak.

"Ah! She speaks! I was rather beginning to wonder." He peered at me, leaning in my direction. If it were at all possible, I shrank back even further. His brown eyes were flat, alien, and held a now discernable glaze of madness. Intelligent madness. This was a man with nothing to lose and no morals to restrain him. It was a debilitating thought.

His mind was a pitch-coloured blight on my perception. Thoughts, so, so many thoughts, slithered around inside his head; some so soft I could barely understand them, others so loud they actually hurt. I tried to pull away from the cloying monstrosity but couldn't. Inside his head churned a vast, viscous river of thought that had no discernable pattern to it. It was as if there were an innumerable amount of different minds in a space where they should be only one.

"But how–?"

"What? How did I fool you? Oh, it was easy. Far, far too easy. In fact, it was almost boring. Sherlock, I knew I could fool, but you were meant to be trickier." He chortled, his strange, high pitched laugh echoing slightly inside the car. "Point to me! I fooled the telepath!" The singsong voice with which he spoke rendered me cold all over. "I just had to think like someone else. It worked though, didn't it?"

The situation couldn't have been any worse. He knew my one tiny advantage. "How could you–?"

"Possibly know?" he finished smoothly. "Oh that's easy. Nothing goes through the government that I don't know about. Hell, nothing goes through the United Nations that I don't know about." Even with that inky mind, I could recognise the lie. Matt, no, Moriarty must have seen this on my face because he corrected himself, "Perhaps I'm exaggerating a bit – a little theatricality never hurt anyone now, did it?" His smirk was firmly back in place.

I was suddenly sure that it had.

He shrugged offhandedly. "Sure you're the most recent, but you're not the first 'telepath' I've known."

Terrified though I was, I didn't miss the specifics of the phrasing.

"But you've caused quite a stir, I'll give you that. Big brother Holmes is most interested in you." He regarded me for another long moment, before adding casually, "Tell me something, Hannah, how's your mother?"

My heart stopped. "What?"

"Your mother," he repeated, warped delight afire in his eyes. "How is she? If I remember rightly, she's been having a bit of boiler trouble lately. I managed to sort it for her though, at a special rate, of course."

His thoughts slithered away from me before I could ascertain the truth, forcing me to make a desperate guess. "You're lying."

"Perhaps, perhaps not. But you can't tell, can you?" He sat forward again, fixing me with his unnerving, twisted smile. "What's it like, Hannah, not being able to trust your own head."

I swallowed, drawing in a tremulous breath and trying vainly to calm myself. "What do youwant from me?" I asked slowly, fear enunciating each word.

"From you?" His eyes widened and he bit his lip in mock thought. "Not much, to be honest. I'm afraid you're just traffic, sweetheart. Unusual traffic, but traffic nonetheless. No, no, no, I want to get to Sherlock, you see. And you and John, always yapping at his heels like faithful little dogs, are the best way to do it. In fact," he glanced leisurely at his wristwatch, "John will have already been picked up."

A fresh wave of fear slammed through me. "What the fuck have you done to him?"

He tutted impatiently, "Oh, Hannah, such language from such a pretty mouth; and we were getting on so well too."

The driver, who'd remained silent for the entirety of the journey, swung carelessly into a darkened driveway. Without the headlamps on, there was no light to give me any hint as to our location. But I could hazard a solid guess. There was nowhere else we would be. He'd brought us to the pool.

Moriarty looked out of the window and sighed. "Anyway, I'd love to continue this chat Hannah, really I would, but I'll miss my cue."

The door I was leaning on was yanked open abruptly. Someone – it was difficult to see what he looked like in the dark – seized my arm, preventing me from falling backwards, and pulled me out of the car. I yelped as the movement rattled my already aching body. I had a sinking feeling it would only get worse. The cold night breeze assaulted me almost immediately and I shivered pitifully into my coat.

Moriarty stepped out lazily, seemingly unbothered by the chill. "See to it that she can't talk," he ordered. He looked back at me, his expression filled with false apology, "Spoilers, you understand."

Before I realised what was happening, the man who'd grabbed me took a firm hold of my jaw while another man, one I hadn't seen before, pressed a thick silver line of duct tape over my mouth. The adhesive stuck firmly to my skin, sealing my lips together. Strangely, my hands were left unbound. Something about that wasn't right; surely they realised I could just tear if off as soon as I was released? I began to formulate a hasty escape plan. If I could just–

"Perfect – it's a novelty, a silent woman. One last thing: hold onto this for me, would you?" Moriarty pressed a dark rectangle into my right hand and I grasped it reflexively. "Now that thing right there is my favourite part. You see Hannah, the heat-sensitive switch you're holding right now is conveniently wired to John's little Semtex number." His mouth twisted into a self-satisfied grin, "Explosive fashion, I like to call it. But the point is, if you drop that box there, by accident or otherwise, it'll detonate the bomb. Bad news for the good doctor. He'll have written his last prescription. You don't want that, do you?"

He was right. I didn't. I drew in a sharp breath, fighting rising panic. This couldn't be real. Things like this didn't happen in real life; people like Moriarty just didn't exist.

Said the telepath.

I searched desperately for some vestige of hope. Sherlock was coming, he'd said he'd come. He had to be. I looked down at the little switch that was clutched tightly in my palm. That small black box was all that separated my friend from an awful death by my own hand. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to scrounge up some tiny scrap of courage. However difficult it was going to be, I could not allow myself to fall apart.

"So don't let go."

I started at the sound of Moriarty's voice beside my ear and my gaze whipped up to face him. We watched each other for a long, drawn out moment; his face largely impassive, mine, likely terrified. A savage smile pulled at his lips. This was it.

"Okay boys," he announced gleefully, spreading his hands. "Cinderella can go to the ball!"

Although I didn't know it, it was almost midnight.

* * *

**A/N: **I am so sorry for the delay. Reality happened, that is literally the only explanation for it. *Looks guiltily at feet* Maybe the new series of Sherlock tided you over, hmm? It was actually amazing. I don't know about you, but Moriarty gives me the serious heebie jeebies. Oh, and I promise, I'll not be disclosing any spoilers for series 2 in this fic so fret not.

Thank you to the following lovely, loyal people who took the time to tell me what they thought: **purplegirl-af**, **CrazyCousinEiko**, **Allie Chick**, **silk345**, **Spirit-of-the-Rain**, **Izumi**, **Lumoa**, **Autarkic**, **Idunn**, **Musicunderground**, **88dragon06**, **barus**, **SexyKnickers**, **ChristyHolmes**, **kitsmits**, **BurstOfSunshine**, **V** **EPSILON**, **Silvermoon** **of** **Forestclan**, **Crystal** **Vice**, **Arlothia**, **Descent**.**Into**.**Chaos**, **ScreamsOnScreen**, **Strazza**, **sh**, **sammi**, **brucy**, **deceptiveflower**, **Broadway** **and** **Books**, **Queen** **of** **everything pineapple, OhMy**** .Chuck.X**, **NeverGoodbyeRoxas**, **SaraSyco**, **LAURA**, **Anea** **the** **Morwinyon**, **scythe195**, **srooone**, **nattie**, **ady-ell,** **xtaintedlove**, **Gwilwillith**, **Jenny** and **bookswalower**.

Have a lovely week!


	19. The Game

**Weighing His Words**

**Chapter 19:**

"**The Game"**

An unseen pair of hands shoved me roughly towards a waiting door, almost causing me to trip over the concrete step at the bottom. As it was, my shin smacked against the hard surface, but with the duct-tape pressed firmly over my lips, my hiss of pain came out as nothing more than an indignant grunt. I was hauled upright before I could fall and was propelled through the darkened entryway, managing to lose one of my borrowed slippers in the process. My bruised ankle protested weakly at the mistreatment. I clutched the black box tightly in the sweaty grasp of my right hand and my eyes kept flickering towards it involuntarily. I found it incredible that something so nondescript could have such a sinister function.

Not unlike Moriarty himself.

A firm, uncomfortably warm hand settled on my shoulder, stilling me in place. Behind us, the door shut with a metallic clank that echoed strangely around the cramped, ill-lit storage room we'd entered. I jumped at the sound, my gaze darting feverishly over the innards of the building. The lighting was so poor that I could barely see more than a metre in front of me, which meant that my frantic scoping of the room was largely pointless. With poorly controlled desperation, I considered my options and for an insane moment, I entertained the idea of making a break for the exit.

We hadn't stepped so far into the room that the space between the exit and me was insurmountable in terms of distance. It was the large tank-man in the way that would be the problem. I could–

The man shifted, pressing what could only be the butt of a rifle closer to my spine; a sharp reminder of the severity of my situation.

My breath caught in my throat at the contact and all illusions of flight deserted me. I swivelled my head the tiniest fraction, trying to gauge my surroundings more calmly. I thought I could see the outline of a door, maybe a few feet in front of me, which I guessed led to the main pool. I could make out no windows, but then it wasn't as if they would have been much of an escape option anyway. Stirrings of panic niggled in the corners of my mind but I pushed them aside as best I could.

Besides, I told myself firmly, the danger from the rifle aside, there was very little I could do in the way of escape and still keep a firm hold of the detonator.

My captor's thoughts hummed impassively away behind me, on a frequency so low that even had I been thinking clearly, I would have struggled to register it. But even through the haze of panic and adrenaline, I could glean enough to be certain that he'd done similar jobs before. From this, I understood quite clearly that he wouldn't hesitate to use force or pull the trigger if I pushed him to it. As far as he was concerned, this was just another job, with only thirty minutes standing in between him, his next pay check and a congratulatory Stella for a job well done.

Unsurprisingly, the knowledge was no comfort.

I shivered again as memories of previous jobs scrolled through his mind, strange faces and scenes playing out in surprising detail within the confines of his head. Two figures particularly stood out, a young couple. I couldn't immediately place the familiarity. Then I remembered. They had been on the news two, maybe three years ago. They'd been murdered, brutally. Executed. Nobody had ever been sentenced for it. I was beginning to understand why.

The very feel of man's thoughts was revolting. Not in the same manner that Moriarty's had been, but sickening in such a way that a significant portion of my fear was due foremost to his presence. For all they were impassive, pitiless and alert, underneath his thoughts lay a disturbing semblance of normality; one that was recognisable as that of an ordinary human. Moriarty's psyche was too alien for me to fully comprehend but this...man was akin to many others in terms of thought and typical motives. It was this _similarity_ to what I was familiar with, my ability to recognise his simplistic logic – the one that enabled him to commit atrocities with little care for consequence – that panicked me so.

_Get it together, Hannah, _I thought fiercely, trying to roust my courage. _Think, dammit!_

But no magic solution presented itself; no brilliant plan came unbidden to my mind. My breathing became heavier as what little composure I'd scraped together began to swiftly unravel.

Confined. Trapped. Caged.

It was a debilitating line of thought, the weight of which punched all the air from my lungs. I was left to fight a constant battle against what felt like every fibre of my being. My baser instincts were screaming at me to remove myself from the danger, to run/kick/claw my way out, while the conscious, only slightly more rational part of my brain urged me to keep as still as possible. Wild thoughts rampaged through my mind, playing havoc with my already frayed nerves. Without realising it, I had drawn my shoulders inwards and I was keeping my head submissively lowered. My body shook almost imperceptibly with dread. The very walls seemed to press closer.

What the hell was I doing here? I was only a maid – a housekeeper in a hotel so fancy that I felt out of place changing the damn sheets. I wasn't as unwavering or resolute as John. I wasn't as assertive or self-assured as Sherlock. And I damn well didn't have the resources of the British government at my fingertips the way Mycroft did. I was just a plain, boring twenty-something of above average height, someone who carried even less clout than a petrol station shop manager.

I was traffic.

I was nothing.

_Don't move, don't move, don't move, don't move. _

But the chant was barely a whisper above the turmoil of my thoughts.

If I'd ever imagined myself in a situation as dire as this one, this...cowardice was not what I would have pictured.

My captor shifted impatiently behind me, eager to be done with the deed. The movement caused the gun to dig deeper into my back.

_Run, run, run, run, run._

It was like that small, careless contact was the entire focal point of my existence, with precious little else existing before or beyond the moment it had been initiated. All of a sudden, the tape over my mouth seemed hopelessly constricting. I fought to quash another rush of terror. By this time, my dress was stuck to the clammy skin around my shoulders and upper back, and my scarf, the one I'd so painstakingly selected earlier, felt heavy around my neck. A noose. I wanted to rip it off entirely but the blind fear of the repercussions kept me in my place. Another wave of panic, more potent than the last, crashed through me.

It was hopeless.

The whole thing was hopeless.

Moriarty could not be stopped.

Not by me.

Or John.

Or Sherlock.

_We've lost. _

_Oh God, we've lost._

Despite the tape, a muffled sob escaped from my throat, amplified by the strange acoustics of the room.

Faster than I could process, the man whipped around and slammed the flat of the rifle into my unprotected face. I screamed, or tried to, staggering sideways with the force of the blow. My vision reeled. Pain followed soon enough. Almost immediately, blood began to drip from my nose, running over my covered lips and onto my chin before falling to the floor. My eyes watered instantly with the stinging pain. The throbbing of my face instantly attuned itself to the rhythm of my racing heartbeat.

"Shut. Up." His voice was low, rough and not at all kind. "Understand?"

I did.

I was only vaguely aware of the trigger still clutched desperately in my hand. It was something of a miracle that I hadn't dropped it, though I was holding so tightly I was sure the outline would be printed there permanently.

The man stalked back to his original post, placing himself once again between me and the door. He had fallen silent, but only verbally. An intense thrill of power rushed through his mind, unrestrained and unabashed, when he noticed me gingerly cradling my cheek. Upon seeing my pain, warped pleasure filtered through his being. He craved such satisfaction. And with violence granting him both authority and dominance, that was why he did this.

The revelation made my blood boil. A new, unbidden cocktail of emotions coursed through me, obscuring but not completely overriding my fear. Anger, disgust and determination raced ahead, their incensed heat thawing parts of me that had been paralysed by fright. The change brought new clarity to my thoughts, abating a little of the breathless panic. It granted me some room to think. While I was still afraid, I was no longer crippled by terror.

The Game was not over yet.

With a steadier hand, the one not wrapped around the device, I pressed my already ruined scarf to my face and applied pressure to the bridge of my nose to stem the flow of blood. With my lips sealed, I had only one way of breathing. Naturally, it was in my interests to ensure I continued to do so. Aside from the initial spurt, the bleeding had slowed substantially, which lead me to believe that my nose wasn't broken so much as badly bruised. I hoped. It was more difficult to breathe now, and every inhalation forced me to swallow whatever blood trickled into my mouth. The metallic taste was nauseating, but I was left with no other option.

The man didn't pass comment at my silent blotting, so I assumed that he either didn't know or didn't care. He seemed to be waiting for something, though what, I wasn't sure. I thought back on what Moriarty had said earlier, something about a cue. It struck me suddenly that this entire thing was orchestrated – with cues, entrances and timings all meticulously planned for dramatic effect.

Sounded familiar. Clearly I got all my geniuses – evil or otherwise – from the same shop.

_Mycroft!_

The realisation hit me suddenly. If I, with my terrible broadband connection, had a means of keeping an eye on the detective, I didn't want to know what manner of technological wizardry Mycroft had trained on his brother. He had Baker Street under close, if not constant surveillance. Not only that, but the surrounding area was watched too – something else I probably wasn't meant to know – and it wasn't such a great leap to imagine that Sherlock's website and texts were also under observation.

The possibility gave me hope, and with hope, came action.

Letting go of my immediate myself, I extended my awareness as far as I could, shying away from Moriarty's projection. I possessed no inclination whatsoever to be towed under the stifling, glutinous river of his thoughts. Further into the building, there was a continuous drone from a number of different sources and I thought I could sense six, possibly seven male minds, including that of my nearest captor. Once I'd catalogued the most prominent ones, I swept back over my findings, determined to locate John. I was familiar enough with his mode of thought that I could recognise his presence, but between the blow to my head and the number of other minds that surrounded it, I was having difficulty pinpointing it. All I could tell was that he was here and that he was, for the most part, unharmed.

No Sherlock yet, but perhaps–?

The moment he stepped into range, I knew it was him; anyone who had similar abilities at their disposal could recognise his pattern. I traced his movements, following him as closely as I could manage while still keeping half a mind wise to my own situation. Another awareness, the one I was now fairly certain was John's, shifted after a long few moments, headed in Sherlock's direction. It struck me as odd that there was no one at his back as there was at mine. Then my gaze fell to the switch and I realised that he probably had all the incentive he needed to comply.

I shivered as a sudden, pained disbelief stole across Sherlock's consciousness, strong enough that even I, a goodly distance away, could sense it keenly. My eyes squeezed shut as I felt both of their reactions: Sherlock's doubt as he considered, for the briefest of moments, the agonising possibility that John's friendship had been a lie; John's twinned anguish as he took in the expression on his friend's face and recognised the transitory accusation of betrayal.

I didn't need to be in the room to experience the exchange. I could tell all I needed to simply by standing where I was. My heart ached for the both of them; neither of the pair deserved this. My eyes were riveted to the outline of the door, the one that led to the main pool, as if through force of will I would be able to see what was happening.

Relief, double edged and faintly bitter, suddenly coursed through one of the friends' minds – Sherlock's.

Good. He'd realised the set-up.

It didn't last long, however. When his focus changed to astute, wary alertness I knew that Moriarty had entered the atrium. For the most fleeting of instants, confusion born of recognition sped through Sherlock's mind. The rogue emotion was skilfully suppressed and pushed aside neatly, but that by no means meant he was completely unaffected by the revelation. Sherlock berated himself soundly for a moment. At the same time, he deftly altered his innermost thought processes to minimise the possibility of similar oversights in the future.

Nearby, I felt John's thoughts clench with anger and mistrust as he recognised the man who'd orchestrated his kidnapping. I felt a surge of pity for my friend, whose dire situation made mine look like a stroll through Covent Garden by comparison. John's mind was rapidly flipping through its own escape scenarios, and was far more efficient and convincing about it than I had been. He was also unable to come up with a valid plan and resolved, with a wilfulness that surprised me, to remain alert and to act as best he could when the opportunity arose. Privately, John loathed waiting, but to watch him then, you never would have known it.

Moriarty's thoughts were as elusive as ever. Again, I was struck by the unnerving oddity of his mind. He flipped between contrasting emotions so fast it was almost impossible to keep up. His thoughts went from gleeful to calm, confident to impatient, back and forth, over and over. In some ways, he had as much mastery of control as Sherlock; in others, little to none.

I was battered by the ever-changing deluge of emotion; my head ached just trying to keep track of it all. My own watchfulness was amplified by my knowledge of the extreme tension in the next room, which was being channelled back to me in the embossed, encoded form of third party thoughts and feelings. It was a lot to process. I became so saturated with external emotion that their identities – so distinct from one another – vanished to my peculiar hearing, until I could no longer tell the three men apart. I lost myself amongst it, drifting unanchored on the tide of their cognitions and sentiments, riding the crests and falls of their nonverbal responses. Thoughts, a great many, many thoughts, converging and diverging in a thousand subtle and varied ways, threatened to overwhelm my sense of existence. Conscious, subconscious, sensory, emotive – the perception was too much.

I was no longer Hannah Spencer.

I was reduced – elevated? – to a state, beautiful in its chaotic simplicity, whereby I was merely a conduit of human sensation. I had no original thoughts of my own, I made no observations to present. I did not contribute, I merely existed; to watch, to hear, to feel. It should've feel constricting, limiting, but it didn't.

It was...liberating, exhilarating, terrifying.

A blunt shove forced me back into the harsh, horizontal planes of the corporeal, propelling me forward.

"Out."

I shot a startled glance behind me, at a loss as to what was happening. I quickly swivelled away when the rifle was brandished threateningly in my direction. With quivering hands and scrambled thoughts, I fumbled for the door handle and, finding purchase, pushed downwards and out.

A familiar chemical smell enveloped me as I stepped, with great trepidation, into the pool room. I blinked, three times, quickly, as my eyes adjusted to the sudden onset of brightness. My hearing seemed off, tinny, and I was left unbalanced because of it. As I continued to move, the sense slowly began to return. Of their own accord, my eyes traced the interior of the atrium, placing the muffled telepathic disturbances I was aware of; each marked the presence of a concealed human being along the viewing gallery. They were likely armed. I tucked the information away in a corner of my mind. A fluorescent tube light flickered above my head, prompting the gaunt, angular silhouettes to engage in a foreboding ballet.

Finally, my gaze came to rest upon the mismatched trio of men before me.

My stare was drawn automatically to the biggest source of danger in the room. Moriarty. His face was half cast in shadow, the divide between light and dark almost perfectly centred upon his features. Seeing him then, in his real skin, I marvelled at my own foolishness. His true nature was so plain. I wondered how I could have ever mistaken him as something more than the cruel, coldly clever man I now understood him to be. But it had been as much of an illusion on his part as it had been an assumption on mine. I'd seen what he'd wanted me to see because I'd had no reason to believe otherwise. Danger from a most ordinary looking source; the perfect predator.

Trust, it seemed, was an inherently human folly.

He smiled at me, displaying teeth.

I averted my eyes quickly.

Next, I looked to John, who was as pale and exhausted as I felt, perhaps even more so. Something flickered in his eyes and it was only upon closer examination that I recognised the concealed struggle; the soldier inside him was grappling, under the surface, with more basic instincts. The former, by a long way, was winning. Tight control, far greater than I had ever given him credit for, was apparent in every limb. The gentle doctor was gone. The army surgeon, disciplined, vigilant and prepared for any possibility, was back.

Suddenly reminded of the switch, my attention snapped to his torso, seeking the threat I was so completely bound to. It wasn't there. After few seconds of alarmed searching, I finally spotted the Semtex-laden coat lying only a few feet away from Moriarty himself.

I felt myself frown. It was odd that he stood so close to it, but I dismissed the detail.

Finally, my gaze alighted on Sherlock. The detective, to all outside sources, appeared collected, calm, even. But I knew better. He wasn't afraid – fear had no practical application – but there was something just _too _tight, too uneven in his movements that hinted towards a deeper level of disquiet. Our eyes met. No trace of our earlier argument was present on his person. Now that he was there, in the moment, face-to-face with his adversary, nothing could or would distract him. His gun was held tight at his side, his thoughts alert and focussed. His expression betrayed no emotion and, for once, his mind was inscrutable. The perfect definition of a blank slate.

"Ah, there she is!" Moriarty clapped his hands together. His flat brown eyes shone with a twisted light. "So pleased you could join us, darling. And look, you've even dressed for the occasion. We were just talking about you." He held out an open hand to me, smiling that awful, false smile.

I regarded the outstretched palm with complete suspicion and made no move to take it.

"Don't be shy."

When I remained where I was, a dark expression crossed his countenance. He snapped his fingers.

A small, red dot slithered onto my chest, hovering just above my heart. I stared at it for a long few seconds, unable to tear my gaze away. I swore I could feel the heat of the marker through my clothes, and imagined it branding a trail into my flesh where it traced. This was no laser pointer. Drawing in a deep breath, a weak attempt at projecting an air of composure, I stepped carefully in his direction. The deadly speck moved with me, never straying more than a centimetre or two away from its intended target.

At least they were proficient, I reflected darkly.

"Just stand right there." He indicated a position further forward, directly between himself and the rigged jacket.

I had no option but to comply. I held myself incredibly still, dreading the reveal of whatever trick Moriarty would pull next. I could sense him behind me, just off to my right; an unnerving, unshakable blight on my awareness. I suppressed a shudder at the knowledge. All the same, a horrible sensation crept up my spine, a feeling so acute that I felt chilled to the very marrow. I clamped my teeth together, fighting the urge to flee. My hand tightened reflexively around the small box, an instant reminder of why I couldn't.

The tiny movement drew Sherlock's attention. He briefly narrowed his eyes at my hand before looking elsewhere; an effort, I guessed, to disguise his thoughts from his rival.

Moriarty circled me then, slowly, with feline arrogance. His unsettling eyes raked over my attire, appraising his quarry.

"Very nice, Hannah. Oh, but you do clean up well."

I hadn't thought it was possible to clench my jaw tighter but I did. The anger was back, a small but flickering flare. I straightened slightly, squaring my shoulders. He had no right. My left hand had curled itself into a tight fist, nails digging into my palm; a silent scream of protest. Refusal was written into every muscle of my body, overriding, for the moment, my fear. But said fear, while obscured, was still present.

I knew it.

He knew it.

And I hated him for it.

"Although," he said slowly, leisurely tapping a contemplative finger against his chin, "I'll have to deduct points for wanting footwear. It's only fair."

I glanced down, following the direction of his gaze. One foot was complete with a borrowed, pink slipper while the other was bare, owing to my near fall earlier. The sight was faintly ridiculous.

"And then, of course, there's the nose. My, but isn't that a glorious shade of blue."

He reached up abruptly, grabbing hold of my jaw too quickly for me to avoid him. I tried to pull back but his grip was too firm, almost painful. Powerless to stop it, he twisted my face with his hand, examining it closely in the light. It did no use to resist the motion, he was stronger. _Satisfaction/triumph/amusement_ flooded my awareness, the result of the contact, assaulting my senses no matter how hard I tried to block it out.

"So _ordinary_, almost plain," he said softly, as if to himself. His accent wrapped around the words, making them sound deceptively tender. "Who would've thought?"

I was possessed by the completely uncharacteristic urge to spit soundly in his face. Only the duct-tape stopped me. I felt my eyes narrow with unadulterated hatred.

He let out a soft chuckle. "Such defiance, Hannah. It's adorable, really it is."

A smirk pulled at his lips, so smug that I would have done anything to rid him of it. The thought must have translated into my expression because his grin only stretched wider. He suddenly let go. Feeling rushed back into my face, but I dared not lift a hand to rub the pain away. By that point it was merely one sensation amongst many, and was neither the most pressing nor the most acute.

"About a seven, I'd say. Wouldn't you agree, boys?" Moriarty looked over his shoulder at John and Sherlock.

John scowled in response. He was half-crouched, half-slumped against a changing cubical as if its support was the only thing keeping him upright. He looked to Sherlock for a moment, his eyes posing a silent question. Sherlock didn't see this; his stare was fixed on his adversary, his face unreadable, betraying no emotion whatsoever.

Moriarty turned back to me, his hollow, compassionless eyes tracing the path of my face once again. He watched me for a long moment, as if considering something. Again, a lazy smile spread across his face.

"Hannah here holds quite the torch for you, Sherlock. Did you know?"

Sherlock was silent, tellingly so.

My eyes squeezed shut involuntarily, as if the act could protect me from humiliation. I felt a blush work its way over my cheeks and bowed my head in an attempt to disguise it. At the same time, I hauled up whatever barriers I could hastily construct, but I wasn't quick enough to miss John's mild surprise or Moriarty's satisfaction. Sherlock made no reaction, but I was too drained and numb by that point to feel wounded.

Moriarty took in our responses, a savage delight afire in his eyes. "The big reveal, and I missed it?" He shook his head with affected incredulity.

"Stop this," Sherlock said flatly, never once looking in my direction.

"Stop? I haven't even started yet."

"What do you want?"

"Now Sherlock," his tone mockingly reproachful, "we've already been through this."

"Not from me, from her."

The words were carefully enunciated, but I was too preoccupied to register its importance, if any. The red dot still danced on my chest. I swallowed and forced myself to ignore it.

Moriarty tilted his head slightly to the side, as if something of particular interest had been revealed to him. But whatever had occurred to him, he chose not divulge it and I was too slow off the mark to seize the fleeting thought before it slipped back into the slick abyss of his mind.

"Whatever do you mean?" he asked with faked innocence.

"The duct-tape. Fearful of spoilers, I take it?"

"Does it matter?"

"Not particularly."

I could only have moved about a fraction of an inch, but it was enough to break the standoff. Moriarty's gaze fell to my right hand and his brow creased slightly in feigned puzzlement.

"What's that there, Hannah?"

All attention transferred to the small box still clutched in my palm. Sherlock studied it openly this time, his stare following swiftly through to regard the discarded coat that doubled as a bomb. It then swivelled back to Moriarty.

"Give the man a gold star." Moriarty slid his hands from his trouser pockets. "Very good, Sherlock. Oh, I do love it when someone knows what they're doing." He snapped his fingers.

The number of sighting lasers levelled on me instantly multiplied.

"It's called a dead man's switch for a reason, after all."

I barely heard him, too focused on the deadly specks that hovered above my chest and vital organs. How many was there? Five? Six? I couldn't track them well enough to count. The red dots seemed to swim on my torso, though that might have been a by-product of the sudden weakness in my legs. My hands shook visibly and I realised belatedly that they had been for a long while. My mouth felt thick and dry, which only worsened the metallic taste that lingered there. I was falling apart, little by little, and would continue until there was nothing left to keep me standing.

I honestly didn't know how much more I could take. I was reaching the end of my endurance, and I didn't want to be around to see what would happen when I finally cracked. My nails bit into my palms, harder than before.

_Hannah._

The utterance was gentle, almost kind.

I opened eyelids I hadn't realised I'd closed, my eyes snapping to Sherlock's to find that he was looking at me steadily. Although I couldn't communicate back, I imagined that my question – and exhaustion, terror and a whole load of everything else – was etched pretty clearly onto my face.

The replying thought was only a wordless impression, but its meaning was clear enough.

_Be ready. _

I gave him the tiniest of nods to convey my understanding. My knees were shaking noticeably now and there was nothing left in me to try to stop them.

"Would you two please stop talking while I am; it's incredibly rude, you know."

I shot a startled look at Moriarty, realising that while he couldn't have heard it, he'd witnessed at least part of our exchange. I watched with wide, dismayed eyes as he moved in my direction. My instinctive reaction to back away clashed with my knowledge of the rifles trained on me.

Too swiftly to comprehend, Moriarty lashed out at me. The blow caught my right arm, sending what was held spiralling out of my grasp. Without immediately registering the significance, I followed its slow arcing fall.

The switch.

Before I knew what I was doing, I'd lunged for it, completely overlooking the fact that it would take me closer to danger. I didn't know how long the delay between release and detonation would last. I didn't want to know. Pain lanced up my wrist as I fell heavily to my knees, scrambling frantically on the tiles as the trigger skittered towards the pool. I watched in horror as it teetered precariously on the edge before toppling in, sinking straight to the bottom.

With a gasp, I tucked my head in sharply, bracing myself for whatever painful death was hurtling my way.

No bullets tore through me.

No blast consumed me.

I glanced up, aghast, at Moriarty, who simply looked on in amusement. I clambered hastily to my feet before I could think otherwise, desperate to back away. Despite my utter confusion, I was suddenly sure that the snipers would not risk firing so close to their employer.

Before I could get anywhere, Moriarty laid a hand on my arm, a wide grin splitting his features. The cat that ate the canary.

"What did I say about trusting your head, Hannah? Mm? Or is that mine?" He trailed his fingers gently down my arm, chuckling softly when I shuddered with revulsion.

I locked eyes with Sherlock, pleading with my expression for him to _do something_.

He didn't need to. Moriarty suddenly released me and took a step backwards, in the direction of the exit. He spread his hands.

"Well, it's been fun, Sherlock. It really has. And I'd love to stay and chat but I've got other appointments with, well, bigger fish, frankly."

The detective kept his gun levelled, but something stopped him from pulling the trigger. He watched his opponent through narrowed eyes for a moment, before jerking the weapon in a go-ahead movement. When he spoke, his voice was cold.

"By all means."

Having surveyed the scene for a final time, Moriarty retreated, strolling carelessly towards the waiting door. His hands rested leisurely in his trouser pockets. When he'd crossed the threshold, he loitered for a moment and slowly extracted one hand from his suit. Curled in it was a small dark shape. He didn't even turn back.

"Ciao, Sherlock Holmes."

Then he let go, and the whole world exploded.

* * *

**A/N: **I'm back, baby! *does a little jig* Hopefully some of you are still out there, floating about somewhere – I know I've been MIA for a while now! I'm so sorry, I really am. Real life happened (shocking, I know, that life exists beyond the fandom). All things willing, updates will be more regular from now on.

I've recently had the pleasure of BritPicking some of **Janec Shannon**'s wonderful Sherlock pieces. There's a post-Reichenbach tearjerker by the name of the "_Empty Kitchen_" (I cried. No, really. I did) amongst other _Sherlock_ one-shots that are well worth a read. So please, have a look and tell her what you think.

Anyway, thank you so much for being patient with me, and, as always, thanks for reading, subscribing and commenting – the whole beautiful shebang. Your support, in any form at all, is absolutely awesome.

**Shout Outs**: _Barus, sexyknickers, 88dragon06, Gwilwillith, silk345, Atropa Haven, Deceptive Flower, CrazyCousinEiko, *a lovely person who didn't leave a name, BurstOfSunshine, Anea the Morwinyon, LadyRaylen, LexieBird, Callophilia, C'estMoiLiz, Musicunderground, Autarkic, Izumi, GeekaZoid420, jetonna, Allie Chick, RollyMo, Lili009, Lady Nightlord, Noelle M, ThisLooksLikeAJobForMe, Nessalozo, Silvermoon of Forestclan, desa1985, StarIights, hunnyabee, xOffToThePensieveWeGox, imposter17, Elelith, TheGirlWhoWaited, JoRinoaValentine, Octopus123, nightingales-rose, liszst,_ _LAURA, Artemis Wolfe, Sarah, leia, No Small Dream, Lillkin, Saxonbandwagon, nothing new in this world, Linda, Izsy, chaosrachel, unknownnownknu, DarkAngel942, Rachel, Rinnalaiss, Feather _and _Space Odyssey. _


	20. Interlude

**A/N: **See profile for shout-outs and an explanation.

* * *

**Weighing His Words:**

**Interlude.**

"_We are the choices we make."_

My grandmother was always fond of saying that. Personally, I've never cared for the expression. The idea that our decisions are somehow spiritually quantifiable is already an alarming one, but the idea that they define who we are is, well, terrifying. Imagine that: every little choice, every triumph and every regret amalgamated and plugged into some intricate equation, the product of which determined our individual worth. A system where a twenty-one is a perfect score, and denotes the ultimate embodiment of some admirable quality; where one is the minimum and indicates the exact opposite; and where ten is neither, squarely in the middle and divulges no preference towards either extreme. Bad & good; moral & immoral; dishonest & honest; all are opposites, some more polar than others.

But people – their identities, I mean – aren't made to be defined by science or mathematics. There are too many explanations, too much detail to account for. In the sciences, you reduce. You focus on a part so that you might, little by little, step by step, solve the whole. But we, humans in general, need context. And the problem is that once you begin to strip away in search of the ultimate comprehension, countless layers of information and meaning and understanding are lost to you. Almost like handling an ancient text with your bare hands. The pages will disintegrate beneath your touch and the knowledge, once preserved, now dust, will slip from the gaps between your fingers.

* * *

_Question: "Why are you here?"_

_The answer, unbidden: "Because I care."_

_He expected more. He always does._

* * *

I didn't choose to be accosted on account of the soap I was carrying. But I did choose to return that skull and I did agree to go up to that office at Scotland Yard. After I was shot, I could have called it a day, licked my wounds and nursed my aches in private. But I didn't. Like the proverbial village idiot, I stumbled back into the fray, more unsteady on my feet than before. I got myself involved in this ungainly mess and each decision that's further entangled me was made of my own volition.

And I know why I did it. I can't pretend otherwise.

Believe me, I've tried to.

* * *

_He claps his hands together, spinning around in a delighted circle. His scarf whips wildly and his very eyes seem to shine._

"_Oh, this is brilliant! I need more days like this!"_

_It lasts until he catches me watching him. He falls still, arching a brow._

"_What?"_

"_Nothing. Forget about it."_

* * *

I did it because I was infatuated with two ideals.

First, the knowledge of the brilliant mind right in front of me, which had possibly never been understood before, was too great for me to ever give up. And I wanted, desperately wanted, to be the one that finally puzzled it out. I wanted to be able to lay claim to that ultimate triumph: complete comprehension of the entity of that impossible man; to close the matter, once and for all, to finally understand _what made him tick_. Of course, the very concept is daft – can we even truly know our own mind, let alone that of someone else? But even now, the fault lies with that one fact, and that one fact alone. I still blame it on his mind; that brilliant, chaotic, alien mind that was so different from anything I'd ever come across before. Or since, I might add.

The reason for my involvement in these events is straightforward. I just I couldn't tear myself away. Not at the start, and certainly not now. But whereas before it was just curiosity, plain and simple, the reasons that kept me there and the reasons that are holding me here now are a great deal more complicated. At first, I didn't exactly know what I felt for Sherlock Holmes. Hell, stepping into that darkened swimming pool, I didn't know. In fact, it was only as we were stood around that bomb, laser sights levelled on our chests, that I realised just how desperately I didn't want to lose him.

* * *

"_Your tea."_

"_Right."_

"_No, not 'right', 'thanks'." _

_A noncommittal grunt._

"_I suppose you never apologise, either?"_

_No response._

_A sigh, a retreat. _

_Then, quietly, "Thank you."_

* * *

No, that's not entirely true. I think it was more the possibility, the hope, of something _more_ that I was unwilling to relinquish.

It wasn't love, no. Not yet.

Was it?

* * *

_I blink away the last of the blindness to see him crouched directly in front of me. Close. With a breathless, half-sob, I lean into him, resting my forehead on his steady shoulder. He goes very still but makes no move to rid himself of the contact. Composed, unyielding, calm._

_Then a feather-light pressure on my neck. Long fingers lingering gently, tentatively, offering unspoken comfort._

* * *

The second ideal is this: from the beginning, I think I'd always entertained the strange, warped notion that although he was blunt and tactless, there was some greater shred of warmth, of humanity, in him than he let on; that despite his skewed view of acceptable and not, there had to be some real, recognisable goodness in him. Was I right? Maybe. He's shown himself to understand and display concern, alarm, even, on another's behalf. And although his morals and motivations are largely unintelligible to others, he has his boundaries – however flexible – and he does – however infrequently - adhere to them.

Is anyone really in any position to demand more?

Yes. No. The answer differs depending on how you consider it.

So again, I ask this: was I right?

Perhaps.

* * *

"_Please tell me you did not just lock him in that freezer."_

_No answer._

"_Sherlock!"_

"_It was justified."_

"_On what plane?"_

"_He is a foul individual. It is the least he deserves."_

"_Yes, but you didn't have to–"_

"_I was aware of the options."_

* * *

That man possesses a mind that transcends the comprehension of ordinary men. He has eyes that penetrate and surpass all the intricate, multifaceted layers of the world. But for a person to perceive the way he perceives and not be changed by it, would, I think, be impossible. Perhaps the reason why we do not is because we just couldn't handle it; all that knowledge, all that truth. Deception – just force one among an unsavoury many that makes the world go round – would become obsolete, and where would that leave us? Forts, castles, all the fortifications that keep the real world out and our secrets, ourselves, in, would erode and topple. Complete exposure.

No, people, ordinary people, like you or I, are not meant to have such ability.

* * *

"_Do you never get tired of it? Seeing everything, I mean. Knowing who someone is, what they do, what they like, __even __before they open their mouth?"_

"_I could ask the same of you."_

_He could. But he wouldn't._

* * *

I think...I think I'd also thought, or hoped, somewhere in the deepest, most hidden crevices of my brain, that somehow I'd find a way to melt or thaw him enough so that he'd _show_ me what he saw. It was a fickle, foolish, romantic notion, but I wanted – want – to share what I saw with him, and wished for him to reciprocate in kind. I wanted to look upon the earth with similar eyes, to see the world the way he saw it, and I wanted to be able give back in return.

* * *

"_You look so lonely sometimes, you know. Like you're looking at something you could never hope to be a part of." _

_A pause._

"_Don't be ridiculous." _

_Three heartbeats. Four._

"_But it doesn't have to be like this."_

_Silence._

* * *

Somewhere along the line I've begun to care for this unfathomable man, in a way that in all likelihoods will never be reciprocated. Really, I'm not so much of a fool that I think I could ever be enough to thaw his glacial exterior. But it's like Pascal said, "_the heart has its reasons which reason knows not of" an_d although I'm not sure that I _love_ him quite yet, I can honestly say that I love that mind, its chaos, and that incredible, unique way that he has of looking at the world.

I can admit it properly now.

I care.

I care for Sherlock Holmes.

I don't need his lips on mine to know that; I don't need his hand clasped in mine to know that. Because that's not him; will never be him. But the day Sherlock Holmes stands there, in silence, weighing his words, is the day that I'll know he's finally listened. And who knows, maybe, at that very moment, he might even find that he cares.

* * *

_I know that if I hug him, it will hurt when he doesn't reciprocate; that if I kiss him, it will feel forced. So I do the only thing I can think of, the only gesture that I think he might yet accept. Instead, I reach out, slowly, for his hand and brush my thumb lightly over the back of his wrist._

* * *

So yes, I made my decision, all those months ago. But whether it shall define me, it remains to be seen.


	21. Silence

**A/N: **I'm rubbish, I know I'm rubbish. I've not been in Hannah's head at all lately and I didn't want to force it. Thank you to all my readers for your continuing support, encouragement and advice. In particular, thank you to: Laura, Noelle M, 57 pop, RoseOfLannister, barus, GUEST, chaosrachel, BGLUGH, guest, Hailey-Stone, Jfreak, CrazyCousinEiko, Allie Chick, Anea the Morwinyon, yaayy, DoubleDaggered, No Small Dream, Gwilwillith, Elle Todd, guest, LOTRlover, guest, aren, SerenityMoonPrincess, GetSherlocked, nightingales-rose, Edana, guest, dares to dream, Teddy bear 007, safranbrod and scarlet.

As always, comments and constructive criticism are both welcomed and much appreciated.

_Warning: _mild profanity follows.

* * *

**Weighing His Words**

**Chapter Twenty-One:**

"**Silence"**

Impact.

I inhaled instinctively as I crashed through the surface of the pool, drawing water into my lungs. Bad idea. With the duct-tape still firmly adhered to my lips, the invasive liquid had nowhere to go.

I was drowning.

I thrashed uselessly, only vaguely aware that my desperate struggle was causing me to sink quicker. Fighting against the weight of the water, I reached upwards with frantic hands, fumbling to pry the obstruction from my mouth. I clawed at the edges of the tape, gouging at my skin in the process.

_No air._

Finally, my nails found purchase and I wrenched the thick, sliver strip from my lips. So great was my relief, I didn't even feel the biting sting as it was ripped free. Soaked through, both my coat and dress had tangled themselves in my legs, severely restricting my freedom of movement; the combined weight of which towed me steadily towards the bottom. I tugged at the restricting sleeves of my coat, frantically trying to extricate myself from its bindings. My lungs screamed for oxygen. By some divine blessing, I managed to free myself. Blinded, disorientated and now beyond desperate for breath, I kicked in the direction that I hoped was up. The motion seemed to take a lifetime.

_Air._

Clinging onto the lip of the pool for dear life, I gasped, coughed and spluttered as I expelled the copious volumes of water that I'd swallowed. By the time I was done, my throat was raw from the concentration of the chlorine. My palm stung when I uncurled my grip and I let it fall to my side. I glanced down, noting, with a curious lack of alarm, that blood was billowing gently from the wound, forming little floating clouds of faded crimson. The jagged ceramic tiles had cut straight through my skin. I tried to hold myself still while I struggled to take stock of the situation. Very little sound reached my ears. My hearing was off, lopsided almost – like I could only hear for a short range on my left side. I was immediately aware of my breath rattling in my chest, the inhalations themselves getting shallower and shallower. Curiously, the colour seemed to drain from the world. Exhaustion dragged my head down until my bare cheek came into contact with what was left of the floor. Water lapped around my shoulders. It was cold. My eyes, heavy, drifted slowly shut.

All of a sudden, John was there, in front of me, knelt urgently by the pool side. With great slowness, I looked up, bewildered, brushing soaking, straggled hair from my face. His lips were moving but I couldn't hear a word. I gawped stupidly, feeling my forehead crinkle into a frown. He looked older. The lines on his face were deep-set with worry. With a strength belied by his short frame, he reached down and hauled me clear of the water, taking care not to cut me on the sharp poolside. The unconscious consideration shattered my stupor and I gasped as my mind finally caught up with reality. Poor John had barely released his grip before I lunged forward and threw my arms around his shoulders, suddenly so very, very glad to see him alive.

"You're okay, you're okay," he murmured soothingly, patting my soaking, shivering back with only the slightest hint of awkwardness.

It looked like someone was an old hat when it came to dealing with crazed and emotionally charged women.

The thought was so amusing to my frazzled brain that despite the utter urgency of the situation, I opened my mouth to say as much. The droll words died on my lips, however, when I caught sight of something over John's shoulder; something that sent my heart immediately to the back of my throat, quashing any and all levity.

"Sherlock!" Little more than a hoarse screech of terror escaped my raw, burning throat.

I frantically disentangled myself from John and threw myself towards the detective, desperate to close the distance between us. I didn't quite have the wits to stand. Instead I ended up in a strange half-crawling, half-slumped position as I dragged myself towards my alarmingly still friend. The rough floor chafed at my bare knees. I barely noticed. My entire attention was focused on the prone, unnaturally angled form of the man in front of me. He was pale, still. Blood ran, with sinister slowness, from a ghastly looking wound on his forehead. A slow, steady drip. As I moved, I reached instinctively for his subconscious, feeling for that pattern that had become so familiar.

All colour drained from my face.

"No."

In horrified disbelief, I tried again, plunging desperately into the space that should have been occupied.

"Sherlock."

His mind was silent. No thought stirred within him, as if his personality, his being, had been cruelly evicted from his skull. There was only this terrible, frightful _emptiness_. Every discernible, recognisable and characteristic impression of consciousness was...just gone.

_Nothing. _

The word that encapsulated my relationship, my meaning and my entire being to him; it engaged in a cruel, vicious dance inside my mind, twisting and turning, this way and that. Goading me. Taunting me.

"Sherlock_, please."_

_Nothing._

An agonised moan tore free from my throat, a terrible keening sound that I hardly recognised as my own. Water ran in thick, fat rivulets from my face, hair and body. I was shaking in earnest now but the sizable tremors wracked my body without my notice. I drew up alongside him, head bowed, a quivering hand hovering just above his wan face. I didn't touch him. I couldn't touch him. I couldn't bare the confirmation. My eyes squeezed shut as I devoted all my concentration to the mental plane, shutting reality firmly out.

"No." I murmured that small defiance feverishly, over and over again. Tears leaked down my cheeks, mingling with chlorine water. I felt a hand – John's – on my arm. Without thinking, I shook it viciously off. It was an unnecessary anchor. I didn't need the grounding of the corporeal. It was the metaphysical that I had to surrender myself to.

Drawing on every trick I'd ever learned, I hurled my awareness into the ether, poised to latch on to any discernible sign of life. Only it didn't work. Every time I tried cast off the physical, my consciousness sank like a stone. The silence was stifling, oppressive. It pressed down on me on all sides, trapping me, constricting me. My heart thudded against my ribs in a frantic tattoo. Again and again and again, I tried to let go, but each time a lead weight settled almost tangibly upon my shoulders, squeezing all air from my lungs.

I gasped, now sobbing in earnest, too far gone to form coherent thought. Terror for Sherlock, terror for myself consumed it all. The instinct to flee was almost overpowering. Everything inside me demanded – no – screamed for flight.

_Run, run, run, run, run, ru– _

Something shook my shoulders roughly, startling me back into my senses – what was left of them, at any rate.

"Hannah!" John yelled, shaking me roughly. "Hannah, calm down! It's fine – he's fine. Just look."

I peeled my eyes open, too frantic to be anything but obedient and glanced down with perceptible dread. Blue irises, hazed with mild disorientation, looked back at me. Swift instincts quickly set the confusion to rights, sharpening his focus – if only fractionally – as he struggled to sit up, grunting with the effort.

Hot relief coursed through me and indignation surged up to take its place. "You absolute pillock! I thought...I thought..." I took his face gently in my hands, palms fluttering to rest, for the briefest of moments, against his pale, bloody cheeks before hastening away. A relieved smile stretched across my lips and a laugh that was part exhaustion, part disbelief escaped me.

He was okay.

We all were.

Sherlock grimaced as he tested the stiffness of his limbs. He lifted a hand to his neck, wincing ever so slightly as he cricked it. All the while, his eyes darted around the ruined pool house, lingering longest on the rubble that covered the space so recently occupied. "Moriarty?"

"Long gone," John replied.

"Damn it! But it was to be expected, I suppose."

For a moment, the only sound was the steady trickle of water dripping onto the ruined floor. I directed my gaze upwards, surveying the damage. The place wasn't levelled by any stretch of the imagination – after all, we were still alive. A couple of the changing rooms closest to the blast had caved in on themselves and the lights directly overhead them had shattered. Glass and broken tiles littered the ground. There was a sizable chunk of floor missing where the vest had been. Pool water had spilled over into the impromptu extension, lapping innocuously at the edges of the new crater.

"Shit, Sherlock," I said absently, "If this is your Friday night, I dread to think what you do on Saturdays."

Beside me, John – brave, earnest, long-suffering John – let out a startled chuckle and I realised with a jolt that I'd spoken out loud. Despite himself, Sherlock's lips twitched into a half-smothered smile which flattened out as his brow creased into a frown.

John regarded him with a wary look, "What? What is it?"

"This isn't right. The explosion should have been bigger."

"Bigger? You're actually complaining?!

"The jacket, you wore it – it was heavy, yes?"

"Yes. I was there, you know."

Sherlock ignored him. "With that volume of Semtex, the blast alone should have been more than enough to kill."

"So what are you saying?" I interrupted incredulously, "That he didn't want us dead?"

"Precisely."

"But why–"

A sharp hissing noise suddenly issued from somewhere above our heads, followed almost instantly by a large bang. I started, automatically shielding my head with my hands. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw John and Sherlock do the same. Flakes of plaster and plastic, amongst other, heavier debris showered down on us. We were all motionless while we waited for another blast. When one was not forthcoming, Sherlock shook himself, brushing the worst of the fragments from his shoulders.

"Come on."

"Right you are."

I heaved myself to my feet, staggering slightly on numbed limbs. John's hand shot out to right me before I could fall. I smiled at him gratefully, uttering my thanks. I happened to turn my head just as Sherlock stood and I watched in alarm as what little colour he'd gained drained rapidly from his face. Ignoring a sharp protest from my ankle, I darted forward to catch him. I grunted as his weight pressed down on me.

"John!" Some of the old fear crept back in and I tried not to think about what it meant when no flash of emotion flitted across the skin-to-skin contact.

The doctor was at my side in a heartbeat, supporting Sherlock from the other side. "He'll be okay, Hannah, trust me. The gash is worse than it looks. Besides, he's barely eaten anything in days."

"Gerroff," was the mumbled response. Sherlock's already deep baritone had reached new depths. He tried to shake us off. "'M fine."

"I'll bloody well tell you when you're fine," John snapped in irritation. He glanced at me, nodding towards the far door. "Let's try that way."

I nodded my understanding. Our exit was little more than a slow crawl; one that was made tricky by the sharp debris that littered the ruined ground and even more difficult by our ungainly burden.

"Lanky bastard," John groaned as we skirted around a particularly treacherous section of pool tiles.

"Tell me about it," I gasped back.

The muddled reply was a shade indignant. "'M perfectly able–"

"Ow!" I hissed in pain as a jagged shard sliced into the underside of my unprotected foot. Pausing for a moment, I bent awkwardly, still juggling Sherlock's weight, and tugged the offending sliver clean from my flesh. Ugh, it was bleeding, but it wasn't deep. I tossed the ceramic aside.

"You okay?"

"It's a clean cut, don't worry about it."

"What happened to the, er, slipper?"

He raised a good point. I glanced behind me in the direction of the pool. I could just about make out a vague, pink shape resting patiently on the bottom.

Mrs Hudson was going to be very upset.

"It's, um, taken a dip."

"Ah."

"Yeah."

Finally, we reached the equipment room, the one that I'd passed through on the way in. My once-beautiful scarf lay abandoned on the floor, speckled with my blood. I regarded it mournfully for a fleeting instant before I came to my senses, shaking my head emphatically to dispel such foolishness. We had more important things to worry about.

The door that opened onto the alley had been left wide open. With every gust of wind, it clattered against the outside wall with an eerie, metallic rattle. With great effort, the three of us hobbled across the threshold and were finally outside. Clear of the building at last, I released a breath that I hadn't realised I'd been holding. The March air was frightfully chilling and the cool breeze set my teeth chattering. My dampened hair whipped spitefully around my face, stinging where it lashed my skin. I was suddenly aware of how drenched I was. It felt like every inch of my skin was damp and my dress, slinky to begin with, now clung to me in ways that even Victoria's Secret would not have approved of. I longed for my coat which, like Mrs Hudson's unluckier slipper, had ended up at the bottom of the pool. My entire date-night wardrobe, right down to my favourite heels, had been obliterated in one fell swoop.

Although, if all future excursions were going to end like this, I decided I was probably better off abstaining from the dating game.

Guiding him towards the wall, John and I propped Sherlock up against the red brick. He sank down into a sitting position, using it to support his descent. Grateful for the removed burden, I slid quietly down next to him, ignoring the chill of the asphalt against my bare legs. I twisted to get a better view of his wan face. John was crouched to his other side, gentle fingers probing Sherlock's head wound. The doctor's face was lined and serious but was by no means grave.

"He doesn't look as awful as he did," I offered tentatively.

John hummed in agreement. "It's not great, to be honest, but it could have been a lot worse."

Sherlock glanced at me, recovered enough to have annoyance plastered all over his expression. "What an astute observation, Hannah. Pray, do continue to enlighten us."

"Besides," John continued, "I think he just stood up too quickly."

"I did not," he huffed indignantly.

"No, no, I'm certain." I detected a note of humour in John's voice and smothered a smile. "You were watching, Hannah, weren't you? What do you think?"

Despite myself, I fought hard to suppress a grin. "Oh, most definitely, John; I'm sure I saw him swoon."

"Ah! Now that you mention it..."

Sherlock shot the pair of us a dark look, earning amused sniggers from both John and I. "Really, the two of you are like children. I sit here, wounded, while you both pick, like carrion birds, over my grave."

"I thought it wasn't that bad?" I asked innocently, turning my head to watch his reaction.

A spectacular frown graced his features but, knowing he'd been soundly beaten, the expression smoothed into the faintest amusement in the face of my mirth. I nudged his side gently, acknowledging his uncharacteristically graceful recognition of my victory. Unsurprisingly, he didn't respond, but the fact that he made no move to rid himself of the contact was evidence enough of the progress we'd made.

Twilit London was strangely peaceful. Over our heads, the sky was dark and the black smoke that had issued from the poolside explosion was lost against the pitch backdrop. On impulse, I turned my face in the direction of the heart of the city. Although I couldn't see it, I could picture the lights and the buildings, the statues and the parks. London was massive, millions of people, all leading different lives, crammed into one heaving, manic, dynamic city. It could be picturesque – and dirty; coarse, as well as opulent; loud and oh-so quiet. London didn't care who you were or where you came from. It'd carry you away, if you let it.

It was striking, in its own way, but bloody cold to boot.

The temperature made everything hurt tenfold. It felt like everything ached, right from my face, down to my shoulder and my ankle. My bloodied nose seemed to throb in time with my heartbeat and there was a telltale pressure in the back of my skull that whispered of a splitting headache to come. But part of me didn't care. Through my exhaustion, the only thing I could make sense of was a deep-rooted, profound gratitude for our survival. I shivered as a particularly cutting wind swirled around my almost bare shoulder blades. Without thinking, I shifted closer into Sherlock's warm side; a reflexive attempt to raise my core temperature. When he stiffened suddenly, I realised what I'd done. I was absolutely mortified. Just as I was about to withdraw, his muscles relaxed and I felt his shoulders release the tension they'd amassed mere seconds ago.

The softest, faintest sense of _surprise _flowed into my mind; a transient sensation flickering across an awareness aching under the weight of silence. It dissipated as quickly as it had materialised. I sorrowed at its parting. Again, the ocean of silence rolled in, gently but wholly enveloping any extra-sensory perception. Too tired to fight, I let it do as it pleased, placing my trust, my identity, in the intangible, unknowable force.

How long the three of us sat there, shoulder to shoulder, I didn't know. Bruised, bloody and battered, I imagined we made quite a sight. Sirens pealed in the distance, gravitating closer and closer. It was bizarre – irrational, even – but while part of me willed them closer, the other half willed them away. Somehow I had this strange understanding that once they arrived, everything would change; whether I was ready or not.

Sherlock stirred suddenly, shattering the peace. With only a hint of unsteadiness, he shifted onto the balls of his feet and stood, long legs unfurling to their full length. He extended a hand, first to John and then to me, pulling each of us up in turn.

"Ah," he said dryly, "here comes the cavalry."


	22. Welcome to the Fold

**Weighing His Words**

**Chapter Twenty-Two:**

"**Welcome to the Fold"**

"You're banged up pretty good, honey," the paramedic said gently, affixing a wad of gauze to my palm with a length of medical tape. "How ever did you manage all this in one go?"

"It wasn't easy," I mumbled, bone-deep exhaustion distorting my words, "I really had to work at it."

The man let out a chuckle, "Well, you've done a splendid job, at any rate. Now let's take a look at that foot of yours."

Obligingly, I drew my ankle up across my knee, rolling the shredded stocking down and off my wounded foot. I winced as he probed the cut carefully, checking for ceramic shrapnel or other debris that might have worked its way in.

"As cuts like this go, it's a clean one; long but shallow. You're not going to need stitches, you'll be pleased to hear."

I just nodded, shivering into the thick blanket that some kind soul had wrapped around me. My whole body was still damp and now that the adrenaline had worn off, I was fighting not to shake with the chill. The headache that had threatened previously had finally arrived in force, and had taken up residence across both my neck and shoulders. I lifted a hand – my good one – and kneaded the worst of the aching muscles.

The paramedic glanced up, "Stiff?"

"A little."

"It's hardly surprising, you've been knocked about quite a bit, after all. What I'll give you in a minute will take the edge off that headache as well as the pain in your face. Just looking at it, I can tell you now you'll have a wonderful shiner come morning."

"Great," I muttered, not so tired that I didn't realise the challenge it would present on the morrow. "Well, at least it'll accentuate the bruising everywhere else." I sighed, "Let it never be said that I do things by halves."

He grinned, "No one could ever accuse you of that."

"Ha! Ow, damn it, that hurts." My face felt about three sizes too big, and was throbbing with the vigour to match. Although I'd been relieved to know that the blow hadn't broken my nose, there was no way in hell that I would be looking into a mirror anytime soon.

While the man rummaged around in his medical kit, I made yet another attempt to locate his thoughts. However, as with the other some dozen times I'd tried, my efforts remained fruitless. The oppressive weight that had suffocated my ability since the explosion had yet to lift. The space that his mind should have occupied remained frustratingly empty and I struggling to mask my increasing distress at the fact. Making matters worse was the fact that there were easily forty-odd personnel from the emergency services scurrying about, not one of whom were detectable on the mental plane. I fought to crush another swell of rising panic.

What if this was it, from now on? What if it never came back again? Who would I be, then? How would I–?

_Enough, Hannah, _I told myself firmly, asserting conviction I didn't feel. _Give it time. _

But–?

_Give it time._

Forcing myself to confront the futility of my anxiety, I presented the two possible outcomes inside my mind: it would either come back and I could carry on as before, or it wouldn't and I'd have to adapt. Nothing was to be gained from fretting uselessly over something over which I had no control. I released a shaky breath and resolutely banished such thoughts from my mind, refusing to pay court to the slew of _what-if _scenarios that were being unhelpfully conjured by my subconscious.

Instead, I turned my attention to the proceedings that were playing out in front of me. As Sherlock had surmised, the cavalry had indeed arrived and our modest Friday night escapade had been met with a full complement of London's emergency services. The bright blue-flashing lights from the response vehicles clashed with the dimmed yellow-orange of the street lamps overhead; a combination that, quite literally, cast a strange light upon the scene. The contrasting, flashing hues played havoc with my already haggard brain cells and I found myself blinking frequently as my body tried to convince my eyes to adjust.

"Right, you're all set," the paramedic said suddenly, finishing with the bandage on my foot. "Where are your shoes?"

"Um, currently abandoned on the pavement on Baker Street, I think. And my slippers have, erm, taken a dunk." The man shot me a quizzical look. "It's a long story," I explained hastily, immediately embarrassed.

He grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Sweetheart, you're my fourth call-out tonight; you're not the most bizarre by a long shot."

I shot him a tired smile, trying not to move my face too much, "Friday nights, eh?"

"Exactly. Now, you'll not need to go to A&E, but I'd recommend that you see your GP sometime tomorrow afternoon, just so he or she can change dressings and suchlike. Here are the promised meds – nothing that'll knock out a horse, don't worry – but co-codamol's a touch stronger than your garden variety paracetamol. Take these now to take the edge off and don't take anything else for at least another four hours, okay?"

I nodded slowly, drawing the blanket tighter. "Okay."

"There's a good lass," he said, patting me carefully on the shoulder. "You're not concussed, so you're alright to sleep. But if your vision goes or you start to feel nauseous, head straight to hospital."

"Got it."

He smiled, "Good. Now there's a police lady that wants to speak to you. Don't feel that you have to move just yet – I've got a few bits I need to get in order before we set off again."

"Okay, thanks. And, thanks for patching me up, I appreciate it."

"Just doing my job, but you're welcome." The paramedic moved away, motioning over the waiting policewoman. It was only once she drew nearer that I realised I recognised her.

"Hannah Spencer? My name is Sally Donovan, I'm a Detective Sergeant with Scotland Yard. I have a few questions that I need to ask you, if that's alright."

Her tone implied more of a statement than a question, but I nodded my reluctant assent all the same. By that point, I was fantasising about a pair of dry pyjamas and my warm bed, but taking in the determined look on her face, I resigned myself to a long wait.

She launched into a long list of inquiries, delving into every little detail from my association with Mat–Moriarty to how I'd ended up at the pool. It was hard to think around the throbbing in my face, much less force a coherent retelling from my fried brain, but I related what had happened as best I could. Her eyebrows disappeared higher and higher into her hairline as I offered what detail I could remember and I could sense her growing frustration with what she perceived as gaps in my narrative.

"So you didn't know that this man from work, Matt, was actually the same man that Holmes was pursuing?" she asked. Though she masked it well, I sensed scepticism rolling off her in waves, no telepathy required. It was etched into the profile of her shoulders, the way she held her head.

"Yes." The words came out only slightly strangled. My patience, already frayed, was fast unravelling; the painkillers had yet to take effect, my telepathy was MIA, I was still soaking wet, I'd ruined my favourite dress, made a complete arse of myself on numerous occasions and, to cap it all off, I was being met with disbelief at every turn.

I would have been angry if I hadn't been so close to tears.

"Why go to Baker Street?"

When a random patrolman chose that moment to hand me a steaming hot chocolate I just about cried. I took a long sip, not caring that it was slightly too hot for comfortable drinking; I was too wrecked for comfortable. I wrapped my palms around the cup, letting the glorious heat sink into my skin.

"Because," I answered finally, a little of my composure restored, "I knew Sherlock would try something. I went to try to make him see reason."

Donovan snorted, but she refrained from making a comment. She didn't much need to, however – her opinion was etched pretty clearly onto her face.

I managed – just – to smother a dark scowl.

"And you say that you were abducted outside Baker Street?"

"Yes."

"And this Moriarty brought you here?"

"Yes."

"But Holmes arrived of his own accord?"

I clenched my jaw. I didn't much mind her questions – it was her manner that irked me. "That's what I said, yes."

"And where does John Watson fit into all this?"

"I don't know! He wasn't there when I got there. Moriarty said something about him getting 'picked up' but I don't know where he was when they found him, I'm sorry." I rubbed my eyes vigorously, trying to instil some greater alertness. Perhaps I _was _the problem after all. I sighed and reconsidered my words. "Moriarty's got this game going with Sherlock; you saw that earlier with the pictures. I think he wanted John and I at the pool because he thought we'd...destabilise him, hand him the advantage, maybe? I don't really know."

Lestrade, dressed in his customary dark overcoat, picked that moment to materialise. He strode over and took in the scene with a quick, but assessing gaze.

"I think we should leave this for tonight," he said firmly.

"Oh please." The relief was embarrassingly evident in my voice.

"Donovan can take your details. Someone will contact you tomorrow," he glanced at his watch, "today, even. When you've done that, head over and see if you can talk some sense into Sherlock. Perhaps he'll listen to you."

I snorted and immediately regretted doing so when a sharp pain shot down my face. I sighed. "Braver men have tried, but I'll have a go."

"Good. His EMT looks like she can't decide whether to cry or strangle him."

"I know the feeling."

With a chuckle, he moved away to converse with someone from the fire department. Taking great care, I pushed myself off the edge of the ambulance, testing my bruised and bandaged ankle. Satisfied that it would hold, I took the proffered pen awkwardly in my bandaged hand and scrawled down my contact details. I handed the pad back to her.

"I'll assume you'll be at home later?"

"I don't think I'll be going very far, to be honest," I said, wincing as put too much weight on my bad foot.

Her eyes dropped briefly to my bare feet and she seemed to consider something. "Wait here a moment." She crossed the short distance to a patrol car and opened the boot. She rummaged for a short moment before returning, two dark shapes in hand.

"Here, take these," she said, handing me a pair of blue flip flops. "There were left by someone on a hen-do. The state she was in, she won't remember where she put them."

I was taken aback by her sudden kindness. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she said stiffly. "We'll be in contact. Thank you for your time." Without waiting for a reply she pivoted on her heel and strode away, curls bouncing as she moved.

Baffled, I watched her for a moment, before sighing and shaking my head. Slipping the unlikely footwear carefully on over my dressing, I turned in search of Sherlock. I soon spotted him seated in an ambulance of his own, an almighty scowl settled across his features. I was quick to attribute the source when I realised who was standing close-by.

The Holmes siblings were locked in a heated debate and although their voices weren't overloud, their body language spoke volumes of the acerbic volleys that were being fired back and forth. Two sets of blue eyes were narrowed dangerously at each other. Sherlock's lip was practically curled in contempt and Mycroft's usually elegant gestures were just a touch less refined than usual. All in all, it had all the markers of a spectacular verbal joust.

I was just relieved that I couldn't hear what was going on inside their heads.

The EMT looked as harassed as Lestrade had made her out to be, equal parts harried and tense. As I approached, Sherlock said something and even in the dimmed light I could see the angry flush that spread across her features. She promptly threw down her latex gloves and hopped out of the back of the ambulance, storming in my direction, presumably to pass her difficult patient off to her colleague. She muttered furiously to herself as she went. Sherlock didn't even spare her a glance.

I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders, rallying my courage for the first pass. After all, one did not walk into Mordor unprepared.

"Well, Mycroft," Sherlock's deep voice was laden with scorn, "if your people possessed some semblance of competence and had flagged Moriarty as a legitimate threat weeks ago, we would not be in this situation."

"Perhaps if you weren't so insistent on disabling our surveillance feeds and terrorising the staff sent to reinstall them, we might have been able to track him," Mycroft replied, impervious to the caustic tone. "More to the point, brother, my 'people', as you term them, work ceaselessly to compile detailed, up-to-date files on those dangerous individuals and organisations that present a threat to our national security. James Moriarty's name has not crossed my desk in over a year-"

Sherlock cut him off, gesturing angrily. "What I therefore fail to understand, _brother_, is why – despite being signposted – the information was not passed to me once his involvement had been confirmed?"

"There are certain things that cannot be disclosed," he replied mildly. "Even to family."

"For God's sake, Mycroft, I could have stopped this sooner."

"Doubtful."

If it were at all possible, Sherlock's foul mood descended from a torrential downpour into apocalyptic hellfire. "Of all the–"

"Boys!" I snapped, having heard enough. Two sets of eerily similar blue eyes swivelled in my direction; each a mirror of the other's annoyance. I spoke again before either of them could interject, forcing resolve into my words. "Please. Take the night off."

"He is-"

"I don't care. Tonight, I don't want to hear it." I turned to Mycroft, fixing him with a sharp look. "Don't you have a country to run or something?"

Holmes the elder speared me with a gaze that would have knocked the bluster out of even the most irate drunkard. However, having already been absolutely humiliated, hurled into a pool and thoroughly battered, I was unfazed. I returned the warning with a blithe expression.

An amused snort sounded from behind me and I wheeled around, narrowing my eyes at the perpetrator.

"Oh, you don't get a free pass. Shut up, sit still and let the lady do your stitches."

"I hardly–"

"I don't care," I repeated firmly.

I knew there would be hell to pay later, from both of them, but so long as I _could _deal with it later, I wasn't immediately concerned with the consequences. I turned back to Mycroft and raised an eyebrow, waiting. He lifted his chin haughtily and considered me silently, a strange, assessing light in his eyes.

Face bruised and bloodied, damp through to the skin, it took all the force of my will but I met and held his gaze. I didn't question what had made me so bold, I just went with it.

Perhaps it was something in the water?

I was spared a cutting reply when his mobile trilled. With a final, unperturbed glance that promised retribution later, he glided off, accepting the call.

Surreptitiously, I let out the breath I'd been holding.

"Nicely done," a woman said from behind me, a clear note of appreciation in her voice.

I twisted to see the paramedic from earlier, back for a second attempt. I allowed myself a small smile. "I thought so."

I stood in silence while Sherlock finally permitted himself to be attended to. I followed two policemen with my eyes, watching them set up a cordon around the area. Their fluorescent jackets glowed violently under the clashing lights. I rubbed my eyes as another wave of tiredness hit and ran my fingers through bedraggled hair, shaking it out a little. A small, resigned chuckle escaped my lips as I pictured the frightful mess I undoubtedly made.

"There. All set," the woman said, pulling off her gloves. "Well, you're not displaying any of the symptoms of concussion so, as far as I can tell, that gash was just bad luck. You're a bit dehydrated, so go home and get some fluids into you." She turned to me, "Just in case, I'd recommend that you watch him–"

"Oh, we're not–"

"We don't–"

"Ah, my mistake. Is there someone around to keep an eye on you?"

"He has a keeper," I offered hastily, ignoring Sherlock's glower. "He's a doctor, so he's pretty up on these things."

She nodded. "In that case, get him to watch him for about another hour or so. If nothing changes, he's free to sleep."

"Understood. Thanks for your help," I said, knowing Sherlock wouldn't offer such a courtesy. I turned to him, "Come on. Let's leave the lady in peace."

"Are we going to find my 'keeper'?" he asked drily as we walked away.

I grinned impishly at him, ignoring the pain that shot between my eyes, "Seeing as you asked so nicely and all..."

He gave an exasperated sigh but made no further remark, instead choosing to search the scene before us. "There." He started forward.

I followed his gaze and immediately saw what he'd spotted. "Ah-ah, don't," I said, grabbing his arm briefly.

He turned, fixing me with a look that spoke volumes of his opinion of my intellect. "Why ever not?"

"Because, Sherlock," I explained patiently, "that is not a conversation that should be interrupted." I gestured in the direction of where John and Sarah were involved in an intense discussion. "He is currently in the middle of some serious relationship damage control. I don't think either of them would appreciate us sashaying in at the current moment."

"I do not 'sashay'," he said shortly, but his indignant tone took the bite out of the snap.

An unexpected thought sprung to mind. "Mayhap you're right. I think Mycroft's hogging that particular gene."

He glanced at me sideways, considering me for a second, before breaking into a laugh; his eyes crinkled slightly at the edges.

Although startled by his reaction, I found myself joining in. My aching muscles protested weakly. "Ow, ow, dammit! Stop it." Once the mirth had subsided, I noticed his expression. "I don't know what you're smiling at, you've got stitches in your bloody forehead." I tried to mimic one of his spectacular scowls; it didn't work very well.

All the same, he sobered. "Moriarty didn't do that," he said, nodding towards my face.

It was a statement, not a question, but I answered anyway.

"No," I agreed. "It's not really his style."

"I thought so." There was an odd note in his voice. He paused for a moment. "Are you alright?"

A small smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. "Um, no – not yet, anyway." I gave a short, rueful laugh. "I don't really think I'm cut out for this stuff, to be honest."

He watched me for a long moment. Finally, he spoke, "Quite the contrary."

I thought I detected a hint of surprise in his tone.

We lapsed into silence, distracted by the goings on around us. The ambulances had all disappeared, off, presumably, to attend to some other emergency and as the site had been secured, the number of police cars had slowly reduced. Fire crews were in and out of the building, calling out to each other. I watched quietly as they went about their business. A few minutes had passed when he broke the silence.

"Spencer."

His curious tone of voice caught my attention. I turned to regard him, my eyebrows conveying my unspoken question.

"Earlier, when you–" he began.

I overrode him hurriedly, immediately realising where he was headed. "Let's...you know what, let's not do this now, okay? For now, let's just...let it be enough that we've all made it out in one piece." I took a deep breath and spoke again, more softly this time. "Later, please."

Something of my plea must have translated because he nodded once, succinctly.

"Later," he agreed.

"Sherlock!"

We both twisted in the direction of the voice. Lestrade strode purposefully in our direction, hands slotted into his coat pockets.

Sherlock inclined his head in greeting, "Detective Inspector."

"I've got a few questions, provided, of course, that you've finished harassing the medical staff?"

"Quite finished, yes," he replied drily, flicking an almost imperceptible glance at me.

Lestrade noticed and grinned. "Good for you, Hannah." He turned to Sherlock, "If you wouldn't mind stepping this way, I need you to go over what happened."

Sherlock shook himself. "Yes."

Lestrade looked at me, "We'll be in touch, Hannah. In the meantime, get some rest. You need it."

The Detective Inspector had already started to walk away so he didn't see how Sherlock hesitated for the briefest of moments before turning to follow. The Consulting Detective considered me for a final time, his face, as ever, inscrutable. I watched him watch me and I felt a tired smile tug at my lips. I nodded my head in Lestrade's direction, my message clear. He turned away without further hesitation.

I watched them go, no particular thought foremost in my mind. Although the pain medication had started to kick in, the exhaustion was gradually creeping back. I yawned widely, covering my mouth with my hand, and glanced at my watch. Ten past two. It was high time to head home; I only had to solve the problem of my absent house keys first.

"Hannah."

I jumped out my skin. "Christ!" I wheeled around, only to see Mycroft standing a couple of paces to my left. "Who put you there?!"

He graced me with one of his unusual, cold smiles – if you could call it that – but did not immediately reply. As was his custom, he was dressed sharply: waistcoat, suit jacket, tie, overcoat. He cut a singularly intimidating figure, I surmised.

I eyed him with unconcealed disquiet, recalling my earlier dismissal of him.

"I daresay that you'll be needing this." He reached into his suit pocket and produced a small object. He extended the slim brown envelope to me.

I regarded it suspiciously but accepted the proffered item, knowing it would do little good to ask. Frowning, I slipped my thumb under the lip, parting the adhesive. I tilted it and something small fell into my hand. Picking it up, I rotated it between my fingers.

"It's a key," I said, absolutely baffled.

"That is correct."

"But why..." I stopped, peering at it closely. It somehow looked familiar. "Wait, is this...is this _my _key?"

His lips twitched slightly in faint amusement, "A copy, yes."

"But–"

"Use it in good health." Although his gaze was overwhelmingly cool, his eyes held the just barest hint of a twinkle. "Welcome to the fold, Hannah."

Once the initial surprise had passed, it was as he walked away that I realised something crucial: I honestly wasn't that astonished.

What that meant, I dreaded to think.

...

* * *

**Spencer**. Sat, 03:47

_Sherlock?_

* * *

**Sherlock**. Sat, 03:49

_Now?_

* * *

**Spencer. **Sat, 03:50

_Yes_

* * *

**A/N**: This chapter was so much fun to write! Also, I've completely finished school now (scary stuff!) so expect more frequent updates to be coming your way shortly.

Thanks to the following for taking the trouble to leave a message. You guys are all really sweet.

Laura, Gwilwillith, Allie Chick, TheLazyHeart , kitsmits, Cretha Loesing, ReaderB, AmeliaReddy , Anea the Morwinyon , LoveInChains, Maryssa Thranduil, Jaygrl22, Scarlet, Morbid DramaQueen10, Silimaira, um hello (*hi there!), rabid reader and a lovely "guest".

If you have a spare moment, please let me know what you think! I'd love to hear from you.

Up next: a little POV switch...


	23. Later: A Paradigm Shift

**N.B. **There's some specific formatting in this one (italics ftw!) so I'd recommend switching to a browser that accommodates this, just to save you some confusion.

**Weighing His Words**

**Chapter Twenty-Three:**

"**Later: A Paradigm Shift"**

He sits. His fingers are interlocked and folded over, his chin resting lightly on top. Involved deeply in thought, he is motionless but for his flickering gaze. He is visionless, but not unseeing, for while his sight roves over his immediate surroundings, his mind's eye is directed inwards. A fraction of the night's chill steals in through the crooked slats that board the windows, lowering the temperature by a notable six degrees. A particularly bold wisp fusses around him. It curls insistently, silently, around his shoulders, trailing down his neck and spine. Sherlock shifts absently in his seat, but does not shiver.

_Moriarty._

He tests the weight of the name inside his mind. Brilliant, resourceful, ruthless; his adversary – his nemesis – has finally been revealed in the flesh. He has not been disappointed by what he has seen this night. Over the span of a scant few days, Moriarty has offered what nearly two decades of casework could not: contention. His fingers twitch suddenly, restlessly, at the thought. He has never been matched, never. Oh, scores have tried (and markedly less have come out unscathed) but never once before has he been offered so rich a challenge. The trials, the trails, the whispers here and there; Sherlock cannot deny that the whole affair has been masterfully orchestrated. In truth, he even finds himself admiring the deftness with which Moriarty captured and ensured his attention, though he admits this only to himself.

The matter of supremacy, however, still remains unsettled. This does not sit well with him. Though he refuses to acknowledge it outright, tension sings through his blood and his muscles are taut, ready. It builds to a point where, finally, it threatens to impede his cognitive faculties. This is unacceptable. With practised ease, he forces himself to relinquish the sensation, neatly overriding the emotion. Now refocused, he considers the facts. It had been close at the pool, very close. Sherlock had...miscalculated and had not considered the possibility that his adversary would stack the deck by utilising additional personnel and firepower. The corners of his mouth twist into a line of contempt. Bringing a sidearm to the confrontation had been mere logic. Hiring professional snipers was both excessive and inelegant. He snorts. Nevertheless, Moriarty's (only) folly was exceedingly telling. A small smile tugs at the corners of his lips as he files the information away for future use.

He rolls his shoulders back in two loose circles and settles into a new posture. His neck is stiff but, beyond a light grimace, the sensation is ignored. The remnants of a Chinese takeaway are scattered across the table, in cartons of various sizes. In spite of the hour, they had managed to procure food – from an establishment owned, as it happened, by a grateful former client. Under the threatening eye of his roommate (_"Just have the damn wantons, Sherlock, and be done with it"_), he had finally eaten. With the case resolved – for the time being, at least – he is free to give note to the demands of his body.

He _did _enjoy Chinese, after all.

He twirls a spare chopstick between his fingers. The pale wood dances over and under his knuckles in a pattern of his absent design. The case of "The Bomber Jacket" – as the customary entry into that inaneblog was already tentatively entitled – lingers still amongst his thoughts. He does not banish it. Instead, he allows himself to slip into recollection. His eyes flicker behind closed lids as he reconstructs the image in meticulous detail. He raises his face towards the ceiling. Once the scene has been recreated in his mind, he appends some finer details: the positions of each individual in relation to the explosive – which he cross-references with the injuries received in the blast; the angles of the laser sights – from which he calculates approximate locations of the snipers, adjusting for height, proficiency and rifle model; and factors regarding the structural integrity of the pool atrium post-detonation – which he collates and refines with reference to formerly established details. The chopstick still flits over long digits, never faltering. Momentarily satisfied with his work, he reassesses the embellished image. He frowns.

Again, he scrutinises the scene, searching for the disruptive imbalance. A thick tendril of intuition tugs at him, demanding his attention when his gaze passes over the jacket. He indulges it and it is permitted to present its case. The notion scrolls across his mind, hovering at the forefront as he considers. A few seconds pass. He nods. It is an acceptable course of inquiry.

Observation: _the radius and force of the blast do not equate with the volume of Semtex incorporated into the jacket._

The chopstick stills. He gives himself over to the mental investigation, all faculties fully engaged. His thoughts flicker rapidly. His head tilts downwards, his lips coming to rest atop steepled fingertips. Concepts are discarded briskly before they can be fully formulated, brushed aside to make room for further processing. After careful deliberation, only viable theories remain. There are three.

First hypothesis: _The explosion was stifled by the factor of the pool._

Response: _Plausible but not possible given the circumstances. Although the 2500 m__3__ pool would be sufficient to stifle the blast from the observed volume of explosive material, the jacket was not in the water when the charge was detonated._

Verdict: _Implausible._

His mouth twitches. The theory is discarded. He moves on.

Second hypothesis: _the explosive material was not Semtex but was altered by Moriarty in order to secure our perception of an acute threat._

Response: _A feasible explanation. The entire case has been a challenge issued to establish intellectual dominance, as well as an ostentatious display of resources._

Verdict: _Highly plausible, but an additional possibility exists. _

He shifts in his seat. His eyes open.

Third hypothesis: _My perception of the quantity of the explosive is inaccurate._

Response: _Possible. Unlikely._

He sniffs. In the interest of scientific reliability, he makes a quick, but thorough review of the evidence. Upon completion, he nods once to himself.

Verdict: _Above assessment of response appears viable. An error in judgement is doubtful._

Satisfied that he has sufficiently explored all viable concepts to the fullest, he returns to the second hypothesis. He begins to mentally draft plans for an experiment to explore the concept. In any scenario, the flat is not a practical location for a controlled explosion: it is too enclosed, the structural integrity is incompatible, Mrs Hudson. A swift evaluation concludes that St Bart's is not workable either. An abandoned location, then. He has several maps (somewhere, possibly under the skull) that detail the location of such buildings both in and outside of London. Although out of date by two years, it would require little effort to modernise them. He reaches for his mobile. As he types, he recalls that John owns a vest that would match–

"Sherlock?"

He does not turn, though he had, for an instant, thought to. He hears the floorboards creak under her weight as she advances. Sherlock has long since surmised that a great deal could be inferred about a person by the nature of their gait. Her steps are...changed. They are not hesitant, as they were earlier. Although there is a falter in her stride that pertains to her injuries, they are bolder – if only marginally.

He is not yet certain what this means.

She does not cross the kitchen threshold, but hovers somewhere near it. He can see her now in his peripheral vision. He does not lift his gaze to directly acknowledge her. Why he does not, he cannot say.

"Come on, Sherlock," she says. "Is this really how we're going to do this?"

He can hear the trace of a smile in her voice. A faint feeling of unease shifts inside him at this; he ignores it, neither understanding it nor wishing to. The sensation is instantly deleted. He does not reply to her, only this time he maintains his silence in order to observe how she will react. He is curious to see if this newfound...boldness will endure. A few moments pass.

"Fine," she chuckles lightly, "I guess I'll just have a seat then." She moves out of his line of sight, retreating into the living room. There is no clack of heels, only a soft tread underfoot: trainers. Springs creak as she sits down. "I should warn you though: I can be very patient."

He has been following her movements. The direction from which her voice is issuing confirms his assessment of her whereabouts. This is not acceptable. He turns finally.

"You're in my chair."

A smile tugs at her lips, stretched oddly as if she is holding back laughter. "That was the idea, yes." With deliberate slowness she pulls her legs up and tucks her ankles beneath her. "I thought it might get your attention."

It has, though he smoothes the scowl from his expression. He appraises her instead. She is tired, he can see as much. The dark rings underneath her eyes blend into the violently purple bruise that is developing across her features. Her gaze does not hold its usual...animation. She tracks movement a fraction slower than normal and her pupils are struggling to adjust to the low light. The medication is still in her system; the lack of pain explains her surprising ease of movement.

He does not truly understand why she wishes to speak with him _now_. "Why are you here?"

In spite of her wretched appearance, she still finds the energy to grin at him. "Careful there, Sherlock. For us, that question's right up there between 'what's the worst that could happen?' and 'what could possibly go wrong?'"

Despite himself, he feels an answering smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. In light of earlier events, he grants that it is a fair assessment. The reason for her presence suddenly reveals itself. He amends his question, phrasing a statement in its place. "You couldn't sleep, so you ventured that now was an appropriate time to talk."

She nods. "I figured that you'd still be awake."

"Perhaps I wasn't. Your text might have woken me."

She shoots him a look of mock scepticism. "Hardly. You and Mycroft were so wired earlier; I half expected the two of you to come to blows."

"I was considering it," he remarks drily.

"I know you were."

They lapse back into silence; she in the living room, he in the kitchen. Sherlock eyes the chopstick again, but refrains from picking it up. Doubtless she would just watch him, quietly, inquisitively, as was her custom. He finds this habit...unsettling. It is different when she looks on. Whereas John is always openly astounded by his deductions, she is less vocal in her expression and instead observes with an enquiring gaze. He considers her sharply, a sudden thought springing to mind. He quickly recounts their interactions since her arrival and finds evidence to support his initial observation: she is not reacting as if she can perceive his thoughts.

To say that he had been cynical about her telepathic abilities in the beginning would be a sizable understatement. The very concept of a mind able to perceive the thoughts of another was entirely ridiculous, ludicrous even. Moreover, with the purported source so physically unassuming – "ordinary, almost plain" as Moriarty had put it – he'd seen little reason to humour the delusions of what was clearly an isolated, lonely woman. But the mounting evidence had forced him to reconsider, albeit grudgingly. It was necessary, therefore, in the interest of the advancement of his scientific erudition, to pursue the anomalous claim. A visit to her mother in her childhood home had provided him with little insight (though he had ascertained that Ms Spencer was neither as draconian nor as formidable as her daughter made her out to be). No, it was her reactions in the field that were a good deal more revealing. Her behaviour at the Harrison flat had tipped the balance: she had spoken with his specific phrasing, using words that he had not yet uttered. There was no other conceivable explanation; _whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth_. However, even if that evidence had not convinced him, the curious behaviour of both his brother and Moriarty towards her was enough to prove that she was, in fact, more than she appeared.

Nevertheless, he intends to design a series of experiments to quantify the extent of her extrasensory perception. He is curious to determine which area of her brain is responsible for her capabilities. His lips press together as he deliberates. An electroencephalograph would provide a solid foundation for a thesis and would open up new avenues for research. He appraises her for a long moment. It is decided. He quashes a self-congratulatory smirk. He will coerce John into aiding the effort. He also resolves to acquire Mycroft's files on her – for they undoubtedly did exist – by whatever means necessary. He unconsciously flexes his fingers in anticipation. The layers of security will prove a stimulating challenge, one to occupy him over breakfast. He knows that the first bypass key oscillates between–

"You know, you might pull something if you keep thinking that hard." Her voice pulls him out of his musings.

"What?"

There is a quizzical smile on her face. "You were staring pretty intently there. Anything interesting?"

He feels his eyes narrow. "Why ask? Why not simply lift it straight from my head?"

She lifts a hand to rub the back of her neck, hesitating for a moment before she speaks. "I, uh, I can't actually." She falters. A strange expression crosses her face, one that he cannot quite identify. "It's gone."

His suspicions have been confirmed. He nods shortly. "Since the explosion, I take it."

"Yeah."

At his command, the meticulous reconstruction appears instantaneously in his mind. He considers the image for a second before releasing it. "You were close to the device when it detonated. It's entirely possible that the high frequency shockwaves have interfered with whatever part of your brain is responsible for your– abilities." He lowers his gaze to hers and finally places her expression: apprehension, a faint trace of fear. He pauses, searching for something that might...help. "Temporary hearing loss is not uncommon after a close-proximity blast. Such injuries can take anything from a few hours to a few weeks to return to normal." He shifts in his place, "Perhaps it will recover with time."

She grants him a small, tired smile, clearly having noted his unease, but does not thank him.

He is oddly relieved at this.

"The quiet is...really weird. I don't like it. Without the constant stream of chatter, my head feels sort of empty." She laughs self-consciously. "I think that's why I couldn't sleep."

"Because of the silence?"

"Yeah." She does not elaborate. Suddenly she shakes herself and resettles into her – _his_ – seat. She says nothing for a long moment, her gaze unfocussed as she contemplates inwardly. "It's not over, is it?" she murmurs finally.

"No," he agrees.

"Then we need to be ready," she states simply. He looks at her sharply, not missing her phrasing. She spreads her hands, "What? I'm not going anywhere." A determined look settles across her features. "Besides, the bastard tricked me, blew us all up and ruined my favourite dress."

"Hell hath no fury," he says without thinking.

She grins at him. "Exactly. Now you're getting the idea." She sobers. "I'm serious though. I've been thinking–"

"Famous last words," he drawls.

"Ha ha, hilarious. Bully someone who'll take it." The look she shoots him is reproachful, but he notes the unconcealed amusement behind her eyes. "Anyway, what I was trying to suggest was that you should build up your homeless network. Start splashing a bit more cash around, make new contacts, strengthen ties with old ones, build a bit of loyalty, you know?" She gestures as she speaks. "Also start calling in favours from old clients or make it known that you might have need of them soon. This way, when things get serious – which they undoubtedly will – you'll have a network to rival Moriarty's."

He considers for a moment. Her points hold merit. "You could be correct," he concedes finally.

Her brows rise at his admission, but she doesn't directly address it. Instead, she nods. "You know it makes sense. Besides, I have this sneaking suspicion that Moriarty was merely posturing with that little stunt he pulled earlier."

"The same thought has occurred to me," he admits. He is surprised that she has come to this conclusion on her own. He flinches as something catches him in the shoulder.

"Oi! I'll thank you not to look so startled."

Annoyed, he glances down at the launched projectile. A scrunched up sheet of the previous day's broadsheet has settled near the leg of his stool.

He does not deign to grant her a glare. "John wasn't finished with that," he says mildly.

She shrugs, "I'll summarise it for him."

"It was the Financial Times, not the Sun," he scoffs, though he is not being entirely serious. He stifles a smirk as a look of indignation crosses her face. She launches another, but this time he expects it. He catches the crude ball and drops it to the floor in mock distaste. "Ah, you were a rounders player." He keeps his voice level, feigning disinterest. "Such a feminine sport, I've always believed; little more than an activity." Another projectile flies at him. The shot goes wide. "A deep fielder, I can see it now. Though with that arm, I fervently hope you were a better batter."

She scowls. "Bowler, actually."

"Ah yes, my mistake," he replies drily, gesturing flippantly. He spares her a contemptuous look, one that does not betray the amusement he feels. He is not sure why he has rejoined her challenge the way that he has. The uncertainty bothers him, so he discards it. "What, exactly, is the difference?

For a moment, he is sure she is about to deliver an irate retort – her expression is a distinct prelude to one – so he is temporarily surprised when she suddenly breaks into a laugh. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were teasing."

He harrumphs, displeased that she has turned the tables on him. "I was not."

"Of course not," she agrees blithely, but her lips purse as she suppresses a laugh.

He chooses not to respond.

"Anyway, what I was _trying_ to get at was that if that explosion wasn't meant to kill us, why go to all that trouble? I mean, seriously. I get that he's ostentatious, so I can see how a bomb would fit that bill, and I can feel just how unhinged he is, but it doesn't add up." She shakes herself. "I just feel like there's something we're missing."

"As do I," he murmurs, suddenly distracted. His mind is calling to him again. Abruptly, he stands and begins to pace the length of the kitchen. He relishes the pull of muscle in his legs. He has covered three and a half spans when he looks up sharply. "What I have difficulty understanding is how he managed to fool you. Surely his thoughts would have shattered the illusion." He cannot quite keep the reproof from his voice.

She colours and does not reply immediately. She seems to be considering her words carefully. "Moriarty is very, very adept at deception," she says finally. "He managed to emulate an entirely different mode of thought. What's more, he did it so convincingly that there was no reason for me to look more closely." She shrugs, lifting and dropping her shoulders in a casual gesture. In spite of this, he senses that she is disguising great shame. "His thoughts were bland, uninteresting. They lacked any defining characteristic like, say, John's honest, quick wit or your, uh, dynamic pattern." She shakes her head and studies her hands. "I overlooked the truth because I'd no reason to expect a lie. More fool me, I guess."

Silence prevails for a few heartbeats. He clears his throat, suddenly uneasy. "Perhaps not."

She raises her head, lifting her gaze to his. "Oh, really? How so?"

"He also...diverted my attention." The words are a touch reluctant, but they come anyway.

A glimmer of a smile plays behind her eyes at his tone, but she grants him the courtesy of keeping it from her lips. "At least you have an excuse, Sherlock. Whereas you were absorbed in a case, I was looking for a date." She sighs. "What's done is done, I suppose. I'll not make the same mistake again – if my telepathy reasserts itself, that is."

He does not have a response. Having addressed the impulse for movement, he eyes the free seat distastefully. There are too many cushions, the back is too high, yet it is the only one available. She still occupies his. With a vague feeling of disquiet at her apparent comfort (one that is resolutely deleted), he crosses to the second armchair – John's – and sits down. Throughout their conversation, his sub-processes have been running. They have presented him with possibility that may account for one of his earlier hypotheses. It is time to address his suspicions.

"When he took you, what exactly did he say?"

"Not much, really; we sort of went in circles. It was all just a mind game. He was trying to unnerve me, make me doubt myself." She snorts softly. "I guess it worked." She pauses for a moment, her gaze unfocussed as she relives the scene. "When I asked him what he was after, he just said that he wanted to get to you and that John and I were the best way to do that."

"And what, specifically, did he say about you?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you." He waves an impatient hand. "What did he say?"

She blinks, apparently startled by his urgency. "Um, just that he'd thought I'd be harder to fool; that I shouldn't trust myself."

"Did he give any hint as to your role? A specific importance, perhaps? " he presses, leaning forward. For a moment, some part of him entertains the possibility that his intuition has led him astray. He casts it brusquely away. The feeling burns at him. It would account for every anomalous detail, connect every outlier.

"The opposite, actually. He made it quite clear that you were his real goal."

"How?"

"How what?"

Another sharp gesture cuts the air in front of him. "How exactly did he phrase it?"

"I'm not sure I–"

"Just think!" he snaps. He knows this is a mistake even before the words pass his lips.

She flinches slightly at the force of it, but does not recoil completely. Instead, she regards him closely, meeting his gaze levelly. "I'm not gifted with the same degree of intelligence as you, Sherlock. Try as I might, I can't see the connections the way you can." The words are spoken gently, but firmly. She grants him a small smile. "So just bear with me, okay? I am trying."

He holds her gaze, considering. Although he is still impatient to confirm his theory, he decides that he can respect this. He nods.

The smile breaks out in full. "Close enough." She looks away, passing a hand through her hair as she thinks. He has previously noticed this habit. "The exact word he used was 'traffic'. He said something like: 'you're only traffic, darling. Unusual traffic, but traffic nevertheless.'"

_Traffic: an aggregate of vehicles/people/freight. An annoyance. _

_An obstacle. _

There. He has his answer.

Oblivious to his epiphany, she hesitates for a second before continuing. "He also said that I wasn't the only telepath he'd 'known'."

It is confirmed.

He glances at her sharply. "You're right."

"Now that makes a change," she says, sending him an amused look. She sits forward. "About what, might I ask?"

He stands, beginning to pace. "Moriarty wasn't merely 'posturing' at the pool. Earlier, I observed that the volume of explosive material did not appear to be congruent with the blast we experienced." He pauses, permitting her time to process this. When she nods, he continues, "I believe that the bulk of that vest – in other words, the apparent amount of Semtex – was meant to secure our perception of a real and acute threat. I estimate that only a small percentage of those blocks were actually explosive – which would account for the reduced blast radius, as well as our relatively minor injuries."

"They don't feel very minor, to be honest," she remarks drily.

His gaze sweeps over her, taking in her physical state. "The worst of your injuries were obtained prior to your entrance into the atrium and the others look to have been caused by debris from the blast, most of which will have occurred after the fact. What's more, neither John, you or myself have sustained primary or secondary wounds; no traumatic brain injuries and no blast lung, for example. The risk of such injury would be tripled by the nature of the building, so the probability of us having emerged largely unscathed is accordingly reduced into the realms of improbability." He draws in a breath before pressing on. "Now, there are several explanations but the most likely is that the vest was a feint; one meant to disguise a secondary motive."

"Which was?"

"You."

She jerks back in surprise. "I don't follow."

"Up until a few hours ago, you presented a rare threat to Moriarty." As he speaks, he moves towards the fireplace. "With your abilities intact, you are an unknown; an imbalance in a delicate, intricate equation. Naturally, he couldn't allow it." He pauses, running his fingers along the lip of the mantelpiece. "Though I intend to run an experiment to test this, I strongly believe that the frequency of that blast was engineered to negate your extrasensory perception and thus your advantage."

When he turns, she is staring at him wordlessly. Aside from the spectacular bruise, the colour has drained, almost entirely, from her face. Despite himself, he feels a strange tug in the pit of his stomach. He does not understand why she has reacted this way. He takes a half-step towards her.

"Hannah?" he ventures with uncharacteristic caution. "Are you...alright?"

She does not reply immediately. After a time, she swallows, takes a deep breath and then nods. "It's, uh, it's just a lot to process, that's all." She lapses into silence. A few seconds pass before she speaks again. "I'd thought I was just a passenger in this. I never once thought I might be a piece on the chessboard." She shakes herself suddenly. "I'm fine, really."

He eyes her warily, unconvinced.

She laughs at his expression – it is not her usual laugh, but it is a laugh nonetheless. When her amusement has subsided, she yawns widely, lifting a palm to cover her mouth. "What's the time, anyway?"

"A little past five." He is privately surprised that so much time has passed.

"My god, small wonder my head feels like it's about to split open." She props her chin in the crook of her arm, resting upon the arm of the chair.

Although he too feels the pull of exhaustion, he is accustomed to ignoring the demands of his body.

"Sherlock?"

He turns to regard her.

"When I came here earlier, I did so with the best intentions." She hesitates, draws in a deep breath and then speaks. "What I said about John being more than you was...uncalled for, and I apologise." She smiles with self-deprecation. "I can get a bit hot-headed sometimes. With all this emotion bouncing around my skull, sometimes I struggle to separate myself from the din."

He nods his acceptance. In truth, he does not require the apology but, strangely, he does not wish to cause her affront by rejecting it.

"Speaking of John, where's he at?"

"He's not here; he went out after he ate." He sniffs. He crosses the room and throws himself down into the empty chair. "Whatever he said to that insipid woman, it had the desired impact."

"Is that a touch of petulance I detect?" When he spears her with a scathing expression she just chuckles tiredly. "Alright, alright. But you'll have to do better than that in the future; I think I'm becoming immune to your particular brand of 'Death Glare'."

He feels his scowl lessen. "Already?" he drawls, matching her levity. "I must try harder."

Her expression twists into a look of mock-horror. "Please don't. With you in one corner, Moriarty in the other and Mycroft lurking around the fringes, meddling as he sees fit, it's practically preordained that I'll be squashed like a bug. Besides, 'death by stare' is such a pathetic way to go. My mother would have to embellish the story to make it more impressive for the neighbours."

His lips form a slight smile. A few heartbeats of quiet endure. Something weighs on his mind and, try as he might, he cannot quite conceive of a way to broach it. He knows it will be... an uncomfortable subject. Frustration at his indecision begins to rise, made worse by his inability to source the root of the conflict. Finally, more out of self-directed irritation than anything else, he breaks the silence.

"Spencer."

"Mm-hm." Her reply is muffled by the cushion of her arm. Her eyes flicker to his.

It is a moment before he speaks. "Earlier, when I said that you were nothing to me, it was– incorrect." He clears his throat. "I was otherwise preoccupied and my...inattention resulted in the untruth." He shifts uncomfortably, unable to utter the customary words.

She regards him for a long while, her gaze holding his. "I understand," she says quietly, finally.

The way that she says it almost makes him believe that she does.

He nods once and looks away, unease rising again in his chest. It is that odd reaction again, the one that he does not trust. Seized by the sudden urge to move, he stands. He moves into the kitchen and, pulling down a glass, he runs the tap until the water cools. He holds it under stream, ignoring the droplets that splash onto his skin. Raising the cup to his mouth, he takes several long draughts. He attributes his thirst to the takeaway.

He is only gone a few minutes, but when he returns, she is asleep. This surprises him slightly. Nevertheless, he moves to the chair and folds himself into it. Of their own accord, his palms come together and his fingers steeple. He suddenly realises that throughout their interaction he has been examining her closely, intently. Truthfully, this realisation does not bother him, though it strikes him as odd that he specifically notes it _is _a realisation. It is habit for him to observe, to study, to _learn_, so he is not ashamed when he finds himself taking a moment to scrutinize her properly. Unfathomably, his gaze is drawn to her face. Her hair spills over her arms, leaving her face bare, and her lashes are a dark smudge against her bruise-mottled skin.

He cannot deny that she has seemed more comfortable in his presence tonight, although he cannot fathom what has changed to prompt this. He surmises that this might be the result of a newly resurfaced personal quality, though he cannot be sure. The manner in which she has transitioned into his circle has led him to believe that the girl of her youth had possessed a particular vivacity; one that had given way to caution and sense as she had aged. That would explain, he supposes, the habitual flicker of curiosity that so often lingered behind her gaze. His fingers slip from their steeple to interlock with each other. Moreover, despite a marked gravitation towards idealism at times, she is uncommonly grounded for someone of her gender. While this is not sufficient enough to allow her to eclipse – or even to predominate – others of her sex, Sherlock finds himself strangely...appeased by this quality.

Moriarty will not have her.

He draws his phone from his dressing gown pocket. His fingers flash over the screen. For a brief second, his thumb hovers over 'send'. He overrides the hesitation. It is logical.

**Sat, 05:25**

Watch her.

- S

* * *

**Sat, 05:26**

We are.

- M

* * *

A small grunt escapes him, but he is hardly surprised. Deft fingers slot the phone back into its pocket. He glances across at the sleeping woman. He narrows his eyes.

She is still in his chair.

* * *

**A/N**: Although I have never, ever had so much fun writing as I had when I was drafting this, I am so, so ridiculously nervous posting it! Honestly, I really hope that I've done Sherlock's character justice. I actually changed the font I wrote in to try to get in Sherlock's head, ha ha! Please, if you have a moment, let me know what you think. (If you sign in, I'll always respond.)

Shout-outs to the following phenomenal people: Cretha Loesing, Scarlet, Gwilwillith, Jaygrl22, Silimaira, MickeyMonroe, Marshall Cowduck, KittyNyan2012, Reader B, chironsgirl , Morbid DramaQueen10, chironsgirl, AmeliaReddy, srooone, GeekaZoid420, Diving in, a guest, hee7, safranbrod, kitsmits, Marie, bgm76, aren, riotgirl777, pidge, Not Enough Answers, Narnian Sprite, paw pad claw, I'mSorryAboutThat, , Take A Bow Sherlock, short-skirtbluescarf, BluePudding22, Heart of Diamond, Daliah Valley and (a very eager) guest!

Thanks to all for reading, placing this on your favourites, subscribing and reviewing – this is for you.


	24. Discord

**Weighing His Words**

**Chapter Twenty-Four:**

"**Discord"**

When I awoke, I was immediately aware of two things: the first was that I was not in my own home, much less my own bed; the second, that absolutely everything – from my face and neck, to my ribs and sides, right down to my feet – ached fiercely. With great difficulty, I hauled myself upright, groaning with the effort. My muscles decried the exertion. 221b's living room swam in front of me, a bleared tapestry of green and brown clutter. With what little vigour I could muster, I rubbed my eyes until my vision settled. My head pounded. Gritting my teeth, I slotted my fingers together and pushed my palms away from my body. After few seconds, I raised them upwards in a loose arc. The stretch ached, but this time it was a good one.

Never, ever, _ever_ again would I let myself fall asleep in an armchair. Ever.

Feeling somewhat improved, I looked about. Predictably, Sherlock was nowhere to be found, but having already catalogued him as '_definitely-not-a-morning-person' _(when not embroiled in a case, at least), I figured it was probably for the best. My gaze flickered towards the closed bedroom door. I judged my chances of executing an unnoticed exit to be pretty high; he'd barely slept the past few days and would likely be dead to the world for at least another nine hours. I couldn't stop a tiny smile at the thought of him sprawled out in a lanky mess across the mattress.

The previous night had been...interesting, to say the least. Whatever I'd expected, it wasn't what I'd arrived to. The conversation had been surprisingly free between us; our words had flowed – dare I say it – easily, untarnished by reticence on my part or haughty contempt on his. Moreover, despite everything that had been said before, I'd found myself relaxing in his presence. And although I couldn't peek inside his head to verify it, I had a very strong suspicion that he'd let down his guard just a little. The somewhat unorthodox circumstances aside, it had been, well, _good_ to just sit down and talk, one-on-one. It struck me, suddenly, that since I'd met him, I'd barely spoken to him about non-case related topics, much less been alone with him in a situation in which we were able to converse. I was looking forward, I realised, to getting to know him better; to be able to navigate and weather his unpredictable moods the way John could; and to get to a point where we both truly felt at ease in each other's presence, the way good friends did. I'd come a long way in my understanding of him over the course of the last few weeks but, and I could state it with utter certainty, I was nowhere near to claiming complete comprehension.

A wry smile twisted my lips.

Oh, I knew it. And yet I was glad for it, all the same.

Though I still couldn't hear any tell-tale hum, the glass of water and box of painkillers that had materialised on the side table told me that John was home. I reached for it gratefully, popping two of the white caplets into my open hand and into my mouth. I chased them down with three long gulps of water. Tentatively, I rolled my shoulders back, testing their stiffness. The prognosis wasn't great. I needed tea, I decided. Fast. For a moment, I toyed with the idea of making myself a cup, but I quickly discarded the notion. There were too many obstacles (namely cupboards) to negotiate and thus too much potential for exposure to biohazards, body parts or worse. My stomach gurgled and I resolved to pick something up to eat as well. Preferably something with bacon. Lots and lots of bacon.

With a sigh, I hoisted myself clear of the chair. Almost absently, my eyes strayed to the antique clock on the mantelpiece. I made a face. Eight twenty. I'd no idea how long we'd talked but, even with the best-case scenario, I could only have slept for about three, maybe four hours tops. I stifled another groan. At least it explained why I felt so awful. At some point during the night, my phone had slipped clear of the pocket of my jeans and I was forced to root around amongst the cushions to find it. With a small noise of triumph, I managed to extract it from its leathery hiding-place. The date and time flashed up as I brushed the screen.

**Saturday, 08:23.**

I frowned. Saturday? Why was that important?

_Saturday._

_Work._

"Shit!"

I practically tripped over my own feet in my mad scramble for the door. I had a little over an hour and a half to get back to my flat, shove some food down my neck, get changed, disguise the bruised wreck of my face and get to the other side of London; all before ten o'clock, all using public transport. _London's _public transport. I was so screwed. I stole down the stairs as quietly but as quickly as possible, slipping out into the street. Closing the battered door firmly behind me, I began to rifle urgently through my pockets, praying furiously that I'd find an extra twenty for a cab ride home. There wasn't one, only the change left over from the previous night's - morning's? – taxi fare and my Oyster Card. My face fell as my heart sank. It would have to be the Tube.

Overriding the complaints of my aching muscles, I took off in the direction of the Underground. As I passed, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the water-streaked window of a parked car. Startled by what I saw but too pressed for time to stop and bemoan the state of my face, I hastily pulled up the hood of my jacket and drew my hair forward to cover the worst of the mess. I kept my gaze riveted to the ground as I hurried down the stairs towards the platform. Despite the somewhat early weekend hour, there was already a fair amount of foot traffic. Weaving in and out of the paths of other commuters, I lifted my head only to swipe into the barrier and made the unfortunate mistake of meeting the stare of an inquisitive TFL employee. In order to head off the unwanted questions, I shot him what I hoped was a reassuring smile and hurried on towards my platform.

In the past, I'd avoided the Tube's busiest hours, always making later or earlier journeys to avoid the worst of the crush, as well as the horrendous volume of hundreds upon hundreds of urgent, irritated and disgruntled minds. By travelling an hour sooner or leaving later, it meant I was more able to cope with the density of thought I was bombarded with. In fact, I'd often found comfort in the constant, jumbled drone of the collective consciousness of London's commuters. However, with my abilities abruptly departed, I was feeling disarmed, exposed and increasingly jittery. The silence emanating from the minds of passers-by pressed uncomfortably close and I had to fight to keep my composure. Although it was loud in the station, there was no _real _noise; only a persistent, infuriating and increasingly alarming _emptiness _leaking from the minds of the people around me. I didn't like it.

Had it been a weekday morning, I might have avoided most of the scrutiny I found myself being subjected to. Monday at eight o'clock, workers were too wrapped up in their own heads, worried about getting to work on time, revisiting the events of the weekend to view a bruised, exhausted woman with much suspicion. The weekend lot were a different breed. Wishing I had my headphones so I could at least pretend to zone out, I determinedly ignored each and every curious glance. Nevertheless, being the morning after Friday night, it meant that although I made for an unusual sight, I was not alone in looking worse for wear. Dishevelled revellers stumbled in and out of the carriage, nursing hangovers of varying intensity; a welcome distraction for my captive audience.

The moment the doors hissed open, I was out onto the platform. I risked a glance at my phone. Although the Tube ride had seemed to last an age, I was making relatively good time. I flitted up the escalator and through the turnstiles, emerging into an overcast, sulky morning that was so characteristic of the UK. A woman on a mission, though still directing my gaze resolutely downwards, I navigated the flow of people with the absent ease that came only from years of living in such a large city. When my bus drew alongside the curb after little over a minute's wait, I began to reason that maybe the day wasn't lost quite yet. Directing a quick "Morning" at the driver to make up for my avoidance of his gaze, I made my way along the aisle, selecting a seat towards the back.

That was my first mistake.

It took me a couple of stops to notice how intently the child was staring at me. I happened to turn my head slightly, only to see a pair of astonished eyes raking over my face. The kid, cocooned in a violently orange raincoat that was several sizes too large, could only have been about four or five years old. As is the way of small children the world over, his fascinated - and mildly stunned – gaze was uncomfortably direct.

"Were you in a fight?"

I shuffled awkwardly in my seat, feeling myself redden with embarrassment. "No."

"You look like you were."

"Really, I wasn't." I glanced imploringly at the woman who I presumed to be his grandmother, but she was too absorbed by her paperback to take the hint.

The boy gnawed on his bottom lip. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

He was quiet for a few moments. "Well, I think you were," he declared, brushing the messy blonde hair from his eyes. "Did you win?"

"Err, kind of."

"Ha! I knew it! I said!"

An only child, I was unaccustomed to interacting with children so I had no idea how to respond. Unfortunately for me, he was unfazed by my lack of reply and began to chat eagerly away.

"Are you a wrestler? I don't think girls should be wrestlers, but my sister says they can if they want to and she's always right, so you might be. Are you? That would be cool. What's your wrestler name?" He paused, waiting expectantly.

By this point, many of the other passengers had begun to take notice of this little exchange. In my peripheral vision, I could see the heads turned towards us and I was all too aware of their amused expressions. "I, uh, I don't have one. I'm not really a–"

"Oh, it's okay," he said cheerfully, leaning across the aisle. "I'll make one for you."

"It's okay, really, I'm not –"

"'Purple Lady!'"

I died, right there and then.

"Do you like it? Please like it. Johnny – he's from my school, Priory Wood, where we wear green jumpers – says I'm rubbish at making up names so he never lets me pick, but I think I'm good. Do you?"

His big brown eyes were trained on me, eagerly awaiting my answer. Seeing no other way out, I swallowed my instinctive response – along with what was left of my dignity – to reply. "I– I do. The, uh, next time I…wrestle, I'll make sure to use it."

"Really? Do you promise? I can't wait to tell Johnny! Purple Lady! Do you have a purple cape? Is it shiny? You should get one and then you could fly. I'd like to fly but I don't have a cape. Johnny says he does but I've never seen it, so I don't believe him. Oh, if you get one, can I share yours?"

Mercifully, my stop arrived. After, and only after, I had promised to share any and all magical garments I came into possession of, was I allowed to leave. I fled.

…

I skidded to a walk as I rounded the corner a few meters away from Thomas's office, in a vain, futile attempt to appear natural. I straightened my spine and lifted my gaze from where it had been riveted to the floor, walking, with what I hoped was convincing purpose, towards the door. Taking a deep breath and steeling my nerves, I slid into the office as unobtrusively as I could manage. I had about seven seconds to spare.

Already seated at her desk, telephone pressed to her ear and pen in hand, Thomas peered at me over the rims of her glasses in a decidedly calm fashion. I shrank a little under the weight of her gaze, acutely aware of the sorry sight I made. She held up a slender finger in a 'hold a moment' gesture and proceeded to conclude her conversation. I hovered awkwardly while she did. When she finally put the phone down, I wasn't sure whether I was relieved or suddenly more apprehensive. I opened my mouth – to say what, I didn't know – but she headed me off.

"Goodness, Mycroft is getting sloppy in his old age," she sighed lightly.

_Wait, what?_

"Really, you would think he would make more of an effort to preserve his assets." She eyed me succinctly again, shaking her head. She turned her attention back to her computer monitor. "Take the day, Hannah."

"But–"

"This is not up for negotiation. You are plainly exhausted and in pain. You'll do yourself no favours by attempting to 'tough it out', as it were."

"But I'm–"

"As it happens, I'm moving you permanently to Client Relations, effective immediately. I am given to understand that you are uniquely adept at pinpointing the exact requirements of others. Regardless, I worry for the future of this establishment should you be set loose on the floors. I sincerely hope that the rigours of your new position will keep you suitably preoccupied and out of trouble." Her gaze flicked over the worst of my injuries. "You begin in three days; that is ample time for the swelling to go down. Report to me on your return."

I just stood there, too flabbergasted to form a coherent response. I blinked a few times, staring at her stupidly, as I tried to process it all. The whole damn day was just too bizarre – my brain was hard pressed to keep up.

Thomas waited calmly for my response, with some hint of the exaggerated patience one employs when dealing with a particularly slow child.

When I could finally form speech, the first thing that fell out of my mouth was somewhat less than brilliant. "You know Mycroft?" I blurted.

Thomas's lips twitched into her version of a wry smile. "I should hope so. I was engaged to him, for a time."

My eyebrows just about shot off my face.

Thomas's smile became more amused at my stunned expression. "He was young, once. And decidedly less…cold. Alas, that is a tale for another time." Humour glinted in her dark eyes. "Perhaps I shall part with it, in exchange for your voluntary exile from the hotel's pool and leisure facilities."

I opened my mouth to reply, but had no honest clue what to say. My jaw clicked shut.

"Go home, Hannah," she said, not unkindly.

Combined with the more...interesting revelations, her unexpected generosity and consideration caught me completely off-guard. In my knackered, frazzled state, it was all too much for me to process. I pressed my palms to my face, holding them there while I rebooted my brain. A few seconds passed before I removed them, running a hand through my hair.

Thomas was watching me closely but her level stare held no hint of contempt or irritation. "Better?"

I nodded, "Much." I shook myself. "Sorry, I just…" I took a deep breath, forcing back the exhaustion. I squared my shoulders. I could do this. "Please, I can stay." I lifted my gaze to look at her directly. "Thank you for your kindness, truly, but we have an agreement; I said I would work today, and I can and I want to."

The clock on the wall ticked loudly as she considered me. Finally, without a further word, she waved a slender hand in the direction of my workspace.

I released a breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding and hurried across the room, taking my place. Determined not to invoke her displeasure or invite her disapproval, I booted up my computer and brought all the paraphernalia I needed into order. Without further delay, I threw myself into my work. I slogged through endless slew of reports and correspondence, largely unaware of the world outside the office. Never one for small talk, Thomas was content to work in complete silence and I was eternally grateful for the fact. I soon lost track of how many emails I replied to; how many letters I printed and proofed; and the number of phone calls I made. Within an hour, I'd managed to successfully immerse myself in the petty intricacies of other people's problems. Dealing with the mundane queries and quibbles was exactly what I needed to do in order to – as my favourite aunt would say – compartmentalise and address my shit.

Here, surrounded by ringing telephones and an ever-filling inbox, I didn't need to think about Moriarty and his twisted designs; I didn't need to think about the fact that I couldn't hear anyone else's thoughts; I didn't need to worry for Sherlock or John; and, most importantly, I didn't have to stumble over my words or thoughts to try to articulate or assess or address myself. Here, I could just _do my job_ and I could be good at it too; and that simple reassurance of my own worth and abilities, however irrelevant they were to the wider picture, was what I needed to ground myself.

For the past few months, I'd been all over the place and now that I'd stopped to consider it, I realised that the feeling of being out of my depth had persisted for a long time. But I'd meant what I'd said to Sherlock in the small hours of the morning: I was not going anywhere. For good or for ill, I'd gotten myself entangled in this royal mess, but with a certainty I felt deep in my bones, I knew I could weather it, or at least, if all else failed, I knew that I wanted to try.

With that conviction firmly in mind, I lifted my gaze from where it had been absently focussed on my coffee mug. There were some questions that needed to be asked, if not answered, and I intended to voice them. The only issue that remained was how I went about asking them.

Thomas appeared to have noticed my sudden possession of myself. "Speak, Hannah. I can practically hear your thoughts."

Caught off-guard, I blinked in surprise.

A slight smile flickered over her face at my expression. "Well," she conceded lightly, "perhaps not. Nevertheless, you have a certain look about you. Ask, and I shall do my best to answer."

I hesitated as I considered my words carefully, not wishing to offend her but unwilling to blunder in ham-fistedly. "With respect," I asked slowly, "why are you offering me this?"

She regarded me for a time, her sharp eyes squarely upon me.

I held her gaze evenly.

After a few protracted moments, she nodded succinctly. "Good," she said simply. "You'll need that mettle if you're going to tread this path." She sat forward a little and, lacing her fingers, rested her hands on her desk. "To put it mildly, Mycroft Holmes is not a forthright man. He will never divulge any information that is not absolutely necessary or relevant." Her lips quirked. "Such is the way of men in positions of power. But while I understand that the need for discretion befits many of the situations that he is required to address, there are some circumstances in which such taciturnity is more detrimental than constructive. As is the case here, I believe." She eyed me closely again. "Is that explanation satisfactory?"

I nodded slowly. "Yes. Thank you."

She inclined her head in acknowledgement. "Good. Then please, proceed."

I took a deep breath and plunged in. "What do you know of Moriarty?"

"The man and the name have only recently been connected. I am given to understand that for years he has been a key player on the international stage."

"In which circles?"

"Now that, Hannah," she sighed, "is the question on everyone's lips. His network, as far as we can tell, is more than extensive. His organisation acquires, smuggles and sells historical artefacts and rare antiques, even more mundane cargo if the reward is significant enough. Where there is demand, he – or his people – will supply, and money is not the sole form of currency. He acts as an information broker, dealing in secrets and, where necessary, lies. He could topple nations, if he wished, by starting wars we would be powerless to stop." She looked at me over the rims of her glasses. "Of course, much of this is smoke and shadows. We simply don't have the information to distinguish where the man ends and his empire begins."

"Nor do you know what his motives are," I murmured without realising.

"Exactly," Thomas agreed. "That is what makes him so dangerous. He has no loyalty that we can discern and there's no apparent pattern to his agenda."

"Chaos," I said quietly. "Discord."

"Perhaps," she replied, unfolding her hands. "But we simply do not know enough to be certain."

"Who's 'we'?"

She speared me with a look. "A figure of speech, in this instance," she answered calmly. "Though you yourself are well aware of some of the parties engaged. I am not at liberty to say more, however."

I nodded. "I can respect that."

"Good. Not that you have much choice otherwise," she said with a hint of amusement.

My own lips twitched in response. I suppose I should have been more alarmed at the realisation that I was suddenly running with the big boys, but a strange aura of acceptance had descended upon me. Thomas' abrupt forthrightness was an unprecedented gift and the pragmatic part of my brain was winning out: if I intended to stick around, I needed to be as clued-in as possible. There was one question in particular that burned at me.

"If he's so notorious, then why was he permitted to work here?"

Thomas sighed. "I thought you'd ask as much. The trouble with James Moriarty is that the name has only recently been put to the face. In fact, very few of his clients are left with more than a letter: 'M'. It is only by chance that we knew of the name 'Moriarty' before the events of Sherlock Holmes's most recent cases. Regardless of that knowledge, we had little notion of the scope of his influence and even less of an idea of his whereabouts or his appearance. That is how he came to work here; it was less a case of 'permitting' and more of a costly oversight."

"Nobody ever dreamed that he would appear on London's doorstep, in the flesh."

"Precisely. The man is a silver-tongued chameleon and, more to the point, has a profound talent for disappearing into the ether."

I snorted humourlessly. "You're telling me. Has there been any trace of him?"

"Not at all," Thomas shook her head. "Or if there has, I've not been made privy to the information which is not entirely unlikely."

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Mycroft shares with me only what is absolutely crucial and even that fraction must be cut out of him."

I felt my eyebrows rise. "You mean you don't get a full brief?"

She startled me with a laugh. "Good heavens, Hannah, of course not. I run this hotel, not the country. The calibre of our guests is the sole reason that I am permitted such granules of knowledge. Very powerful individuals walk through those doors each and every day, and it is not my only purpose to see that their desires are fulfilled." She met my gaze directly. "I trust you understand what I am saying?"

I blinked as I processed the bizarre fact that my boss was essentially a spymaster. Normally, I would have just about fallen out of my chair, but after the events of the past few days, I had no more incredulity to spare. "Well, that explains a hell of a lot," I murmured unwittingly.

Thomas chuckled drily. "Yes, I rather imagine it might."

A thought occurred to me then. "My, err, promotion isn't entirely your doing, is it?"

Something flickered in her eyes. When she spoke, there was an odd note of approval in her voice. "Mycroft suggested it. Uncharacteristically, I agreed with him."

"You want me to spy on people?" My voice had raised a few octaves.

She regarded me for a long moment then. The strangest expression has settled across her face, one that I couldn't place. "I want you to be careful." She leaned forward, speaking slowly but with the greatest intent and gravity. "Mycroft Holmes considers you and your…talent an extremely useful resource, but such interest is double-edged. The line between asset and liability is highly indistinct; I cannot stress this enough, Hannah. Mycroft merely sees it as an advantageous placement of personnel. I'm granting you this as insurance." Her eyes bored into mine. "It's a tired statement but knowledge is power, and if certain parties are determined to use you as a pawn, I have every intention of leaving you equipped. For too long, I was a player of that game and I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to enter into it blind or misguided."

I was still for a moment as I absorbed the enormity of what she was saying. I felt a distinct rush of gratitude towards the woman who had previously acted so aloof. Though I knew instinctively that she was not disclosing the full extent of her motives, I could recognise that she risked much by speaking so freely. "I don't know how to thank you," I said slowly, trying to convey that I understood just what she was venturing.

"Don't," she replied simply. "Just do your job and do it well." She paused for a second, adding almost as an afterthought, "Just be careful not to do it too well."

I nodded. "I can try."

"That is all any of us can do," she said, trailing off for a moment. When she spoke again, it was with a hint of implacable sadness. "Watch your step with Mycroft Holmes. There is a ruthless streak present within him that did not use to be so apparent. This career has changed him. For him, the country – the many – will _always_ come first. And although the world needs men like him to make it turn, that does not mean he is an easy man to know."

"I can imagine," I said softly.

Her gaze was so far away, her words so deeply thoughtful, that I was relived I was not aware of her contemplations. "Can you really, I wonder."

I decided it was best not to reply.

* * *

**A/N: **Erm, oops. I really didn't mean to leave you guys hanging for *ehem* five months. My first term at university happened and basically got in the way. A lot. Then _the _trailer popped up and I just _had _to get my act in gear and here we are. Consider it a Christmas miracle! ;)

As always, my sincerest thanks to everyone who has read, followed and favourited over the accidental hiatus. In particular, special thanks go to the following for their kind words of encouragement: ciaofay, Gwilwillith, a lovely guest, Daliah Valley, Heart of Diamond, xOffToThePensieveWeGox, Marshall Cowduck, MickeyMonroe, Sarah, riotgirl777, another lovely guest, CrystalHeart27, KittyNyan2012, aren, VeilsofSleep, Scarlet, dares to dream, smileyeilee, short-skirtbluescarf, Laura, GeekaZoid420, AmeliaReddy, Take A Bow Sherlock, Anea the Morwinyon, Narnian Sprite, TolkienGirl, Yuuki no Yuki, Jaygrl22, Diving in, Not Enough Answers, wibblywobblytimeywimey16, Silimaira, Bakagirl101, kitsmits, paw pad claw, blue-icicle, Hana-Lizzie-Chan, dark-dreams-of-love, a brilliant guest, Anne Onimous, LindseyWasHere, Fictitious Fake, , an awesome unnamed guest, 15, ImANightOwl and aLeXaNdRaSaInSbUrY.

As always, if you have a moment, I would love to hear your thoughts.


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